


Useless Phrases

by wanhedyke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Butch Lexa (The 100), Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Musician Clarke Griffin, you’ve heard of eventual smut now get ready for...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanhedyke/pseuds/wanhedyke
Summary: Clarke bites the inside of her cheek at the way her name rolls of the woman’s tongue, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it before reaching out to shake her hand. And, god- everything about this woman, from her appearance to her demeanour to her fucking handshake screams confidence. And, yeah, Clarke finds confidence attractive, but there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and this woman walks it too damn well.or the AU where Clarke is a musician in Hollywood with a lot of bad habits, and Lexa is the new member of her management team who is notorious for fucking her way to the top (spoiler: that’s not the full truth)
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 29
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

i.

“I don’t even get why I need anyone to creatively manage or direct me. I’m a fucking artist. Isn’t that the whole point of the job? I don’t need ‘creative guidance’, whatever that even means. Let me do my own shit!"

It’s 97 degrees in Los Angeles, and Clarke’s driving her 1987 Rolls Royce down Sunset Boulevard, blustering aggressively to Bellamy Blake, her oh-so-tolerant marketing manager, over the phone. On today’s schedule is a meeting with her record label, Polis Records, to meet a new member of her management team.

“Clarke, look. No one’s going to try and mess with your vision, or direct you anywhere. An A&R manager is just there to help you better execute your creative vision. They’re just there to give you that little push you need when you aren’t sure exactly what next step to take with a song, record, whatever. A&R’s are a godsend. And this one is good, trust me.”

Clarke loves her job, she really does. She loves being an artist for a plethora of different reasons, just one of those being the ability to make music for a living. In whatever way she wants to. And sometimes it feels as though her label is trying to take that away from her. When Clarke would dream of being a pop-star when she was younger, sleazy, entitled men trying to take control of her vision and her life somehow never came into the picture. Unfortunately, when Clarke came to LA, she realised that dealing with sleazy, entitled men makes up for a large part of a female musician’s career.

“I’ll see you at the meeting, Bellamy.” Clarke hangs up the phone, running her fingers through her hair. She pulls the car to a halt as she comes to a red light, and peers out the window beside her. Clarke hates early morning meetings, but there’s a special kind of tranquility that comes with driving along Sunset at 7:30 in the morning that will never fail to tame her, even on the worst of days. She basks in the sun for a moment as its early morning heat blares through her back window screen, warming her body and letting her breathe for just a moment, before the light in front of her turns green and she hits the accelerator.

Life in L.A. definitely isn’t as luxurious as it’s made out to be in the movies, but it isn’t awful, either. Clarke has a love-hate relationship with the City of Angels. She loves it for its opportunities, for its weather, for all the attractive people it has given her to kiss, or to hold, or to sleep with on bad nights. She hates it for its shitty hustle culture, for its humidity, for the way that no one ever stays with her for more than a night.

Today, though, Clarke just hates her record label. She pulls up outside the back entrance of the Polis building, grabbing her her purse and pulling her sunglasses over her eyes, stepping out into the humid LA air.

ii.

“She graces us with her presence at last,” an unfamiliar voice murmurs as Clarke slips (fashionably late, thanks to the desperate booking agents and frenzied producers in the lobby of Polis that were all over her) into the conference room. Clarke lets out a husky, somewhat sour laugh, almost not bothering to look and see who was taking a jab at her today, used to the cocky antics of entitled managers and agents. But this voice was new. The new member of her management team, Clarke thinks briefly. Best to be polite.

Wanting to make a good first impression, Clarke scans the room, taking note of who’s in the room; 3 members of her management team, Bellamy, John Murphy, and Markus Kane. Her publicist, Octavia Blake, and one of her co-writers and producers, Raven Reyes, and the head of Polis Records, Luna Floukru. And, of course, the new A&R. Clarke lets her gaze shift to the new face, plastering on the best smile she can muster up. But her confident facade fades, her cheeks tinting pink ever so slightly as she locks eyes with the person in front of her- a tall, masculine-presenting brunette woman, sporting a light blue button up shirt, dark slacks… and the cockiest, most over-confident smirk Clarke ever did see. “It’s good to meet you, Clarke.”

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek at the way her name rolls of the woman’s tongue, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it before reaching out to shake her hand. And, god- everything about this woman, from her appearance to her demeanour to her fucking handshake screams confidence. And, yeah, Clarke finds confidence attractive, but there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and this woman walks it too damn well. Lucky for her, Clarke likes a challenge. Realising she had been holding onto the woman’s hand for a little longer than considered professional, Clarke snaps herself out of it and smiles artfully, “Likewise, um—"

“Lexa. Lexa Woods,” the brunette woman finished, giving Clarke another sly smirk before pulling back, taking her seat, Clarke following suit.

So Clarke mentally curses Lexa Woods and her stupid, smug smile and cocky demeanour. The fucking nerve this woman must have to act so cocky on her first day on the job, Clarke thinks. She doesn’t know what’s coming for her.

The meeting commenced, and Clarke watched for 45 minutes straight as Lexa stood in front of the whiteboard and explained in detail her 90-day-plan as an A&R manager, raising her eyebrows at every bold statement Lexa made. She watches as Lexa explains to Bellamy the 3 criteria she sets for herself when embarking on a creative project, Clarke laughing under her breath exasperatedly at the woman’s clear-cut, meticulous style of work. Lexa Woods knows what she’s doing, Clarke’ll give her that– but she’ll never let her know it.

“This is all good and well, Lexa, but how do you propose getting me interested in your perfect 90-day-plan?” Clarke asks, quizzical, wanting to see how far she can push this woman. “I have my own visions.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow, staring Clarke down for a moment. “Respectfully, Clarke, my plan doesn’t revolve around your work. This is my plan as an A&R at Polis Records, some parts of which will involve you, others not so much,” Lexa shoots back, not in a harsh tone, but intimidating enough to make Clarke shrink back into her seat, just subtly. Nonetheless, Clarke throws back a challenging, ominous look.

“Damn, new girl’s brave,” Clarke hears John Murphy murmur under his breath.

The meeting draws to an end, and Lexa initiates some small talk within the group, Clarke watching as the woman moves from person to person, feeling a twist of something that is definitely not jealousy in her stomach as Luna says something that makes Lexa throw her head back in laughter.

As everyone begins to flood out of the small conference room, Clarke lingers, watching as Lexa packs up her stuff, and in a moment of fleeting confidence, Clarke speaks, “I’ll be in the studio tonight, 7pm til late. You can come check it out if you want.” And for the sake of her pride, she adds, “But don’t get ahead of yourself, Woods.”

iii.

“Jesus Christ, Clarke. Are you kidding? You could’ve cut the sexual tension in there with a knife,” Raven laughs through a mouthful of chicken salad. Her and Clarke had gone out for an early brunch after the meeting to catch up about work stuff, but all Raven had been doing was poking fun at her, making sexual innuendos about her and Lexa. Clarke glares at Raven, and Raven knows that look. “What? Look, I’m not complaining. It’s hot. But don’t even think about taking it any further than that eye-fucking. You don’t want to catch a case.”

Clarke’s mouth drops open, and she slaps at Raven’s wrist. “First of all, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Woods isn’t my type at all. Like, at all. And second of all, do you really think I’m that unprofessional and sleazy? God. I don’t fuck around with people in the industry. You think so low of me.”

Raven pulls a face, and Clarke frowns. “What, Raven?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Bellamy, last year...”

Clarke scoffs. She thinks back to her blurry night with Bellamy, a mistake she had made at a tedious industry party after one too many G&Ts and a rough week. “Okay, so maybe once. So what?”

Raven holds her finger to her chin, pretending to think. “Hmm. Niylah... however many times that happened back during your first record cycle.”

“First, how do you even know about that? And second, we never fucked. It was just kissing and groping in her office a few times a week for a little while, while I was getting over Finn,” Clarke tiffs. While Raven isn’t wrong about either of the incidents, Clarke doesn’t feel that it should be held against her. She’s a changed woman.

“Whatever. You get what I mean. Shall I continue?” Raven chuckles, before returning to a straight face. “Look, Clarke, seriously. I don’t care what you do, but let me tell you one thing about Lexa Woods. She’s 24 and managing one of the biggest record companies in the US. There is no way in hell she didn’t fuck her way to the top.”

Clarke hums. 24. She knew the woman looked young. Clarke’s 27, but being a successful artist in your 20s is a completely different story than being a successful record company manager in your 20s. Nonetheless, Clarke would never discredit anyone’s achievements. “That’s a bit dismissive, don’t you think? She is really good at what she does. And maybe she has friends in high places, you know? Connections.”

“Maybe she has fuck buddies in high places,” Raven snickers, waggling her eyebrows comically.

Clarke rolls her eyes as she takes a bite of her grilled cheese. “You’re one to be talking, anyways, Miss I-fucked-the-CEO-of-Polis-Records.”

Clarke covers her face with her hands, laughing as Raven starts lobbing her scrunched up napkins at her. “Shut up. As if you wouldn’t get in Luna’s pants too, if you had the chance, Griffin.”

“Mercy!” Clarke cries out in jest, giggling, hitting back the balls of tissue, ignoring the stares she’s getting from strangers in the face for her obnoxious squeals. “I’m sorry!”

That seems enough for Raven, who halts the abuse to get up and pick up the napkins off the floor, giving Clarke a pointed look. “You’re on thin ice,” Raven murmurs, lighthearted. “Anyways, back to you. What’s been going on with you? How’s everything been?”

Frowning, Clarke doesn’t respond straight away, disoriented by Raven’s unusually tender, genuine tone. She knows it’s a loaded question, one meant to prompt a conversation about ‘the state of her mental health’, as Clarke’s peers like to call it. Things are rough sometimes, of course, but Clarke has been doing okay lately, and she isn’t in the mood for a deep, introspective therapy session from her best friend. “I’m fine, Raven. Seriously.”

“The drinking?”

Clarke sighs, closing her eyes and tilting her head up to the ceiling. She’s really, really not in the mood to talk about this. “Raven, honestly. I. Am. Fine.”

Holding her hands up defensively, Raven backs off. “Okay, okay. Just checking in on you. We all worry about you, Clarke.”

Clarke looks down at her hands twisted together and placed in her lap, avoiding eye contact. She knows Raven means well. She always does. But Clarke can’t help but get defensive. Lately it has felt like there’s always someone on her case, breathing down her neck, watching her every move. Even her friends. She sighs, before looking back up and meeting Raven’s uneasy eyes. “I know, Rae. And I appreciate it, I do. I just need you to trust that I’m doing fine.”

Raven nods, her face softening before she peers at the time on her watch, jumping out of her seat “Shit, I have a meeting in 5. I gotta go.”

“Okay. Are you dropping by the studio tonight? I could use your help with some cuts. New girl might be there, too. Gonna show her around,” Clarke explains as she takes a swig from her glass of water.

Raven smirks, “You sure you want me interrupting that?”

“There won’t be anything to interrupt. Sounds like you have a little fantasy playing out in your head to me, Rae.”

“Alright. I might drop in, it depends. But I swear to god, I will never speak to you again if I walk in on you and Woods getting it on on top of my mixing desk.”

iv.

Keep it professional.

Despite Lexa’s evolution over the years and the changes that have occurred within her work life, professionalism has always been her dominant value. No matter the situation or the circumstances, Lexa believes in the importance of maintaining civility and professional relationships between her colleagues at all times in the workplace, for the sake of stability. She will die on the hill that professional relationships shouldn’t be hindered or influenced by personal ordeals or incidents, unless of course someone’s safety is at stake, or anything akin.

Hence, here Lexa is, sitting in her car, typing into google maps the address for one of the many recording studios owned by Polis Records, in spite of her... well, to put it nicely, less than welcoming encounter with Clarke Griffin in this morning’s meeting. Lexa isn’t exactly sure what she expected from her first encounter with the brazen songstress who’s known for her tongue in cheek attitude and unruliness, but Lexa was definitely humbled this morning all the same.

Lexa sighs, starting the car and giving her phone one last look as she feels it vibrate in her hand.

_free tonight?? xx_

Lexa runs her fingers through her choppy curls as she reads over the text from Ontari, racking her brain for a new way to politely turn down the woman’s request for sex. She almost feels guilty– this’ll be her third time blowing Ontari off in the last month. To her credit, Lexa actually has good reason to turn her down tonight. And it’s not as though she owes the woman anything - what they have going on is nothing exclusive. Ontari was one of the first people Lexa connected with in the industry when she first moved to LA 2 years ago. They had bonded over being single and bored, and the shittiness of everybody in Hollywood, so naturally they agreed to having casual sex every now and again to keep themselves satisfied, and the rest is history. Lexa purses her lips together as she types back a short response.

_Sorry, work stuff tonight. Maybe another night._

She connects her phone to her car’s sat nav, before slipping it into her back pocket and pulling out of her apartment complex parking lot, headed to the studio.

Mind wandering as she navigates through the streets of her neighbourhood, Lexa begins to reflect on her day. It was a pretty solid first day on the job. Busy, of course, but that’s nothing to complain about in Lexa’s books. It was productive, her morning filled with meetings and her afternoon occupied by stacks of paperwork and contracts to sign.

The studio is an average-sized, sleek building, tucked away in the streets of the West Hills– the kind of building that would easily go unnoticed if you weren’t looking for it.

Parked outside, Lexa eyes herself in her car’s visor mirror, fixing her hair and pulling her lip bottom between her teeth, before stepping out of her car and heading toward the entrance to the recording studio.

Lexa smiles, hears the soft hum of a woman’s voice in melody as she opens the door to the studio. Clarke, she thinks. This was the first time Lexa had heard Clarke sing in person. She’s heard Clarke sing on the radio, and in her songs, of course, but never in person. She has a distinct singing voice, identifiable forever from the moment you first hear it. Soft and gentle, but husky and unshaken.

Lexa watches quietly as she notices Clarke splayed out over one of the couches, frowning, hand furious as she scribbles something down into her notebook, proceeding to hum a short melody.

“Sounds nice, blondie,” Lexa speaks, leaning against one of the mixing tables, not wanting to interrupt the moment but knowing she should establish her presence.

And Lexa could swear she notice a pink flush briefly creep up onto the blonde’s face as she peers up from where she’s sitting, before a smirk takes over and she murmurs, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

And, god, Lexa swears she is weak for no woman, but her heart squeezes (only a little) as her eyes run over Clarke. She dons a Slipknot hoodie and a baggy pair of blue jeans, her hair placed in a loose bun on top of her head. Something about Clarke in casual clothes is endearing, Lexa thinks briefly. She looks... soft. Contrasting, to her usual bold, eye-catching look and demeanour.

Recovering from the moment of weakness quickly, Lexa chuckles softly at Clarke’s quip and begins to wander around the studio quietly, running her fingers over the pieces of equipment to deflect herself from acknowledging the deafening silence that fills the room. “It’s a really nice studio,” she comments casually, before plopping herself down onto a chair next to one of the workstations.

“It’s— it does its job,” Clarke laughs softly. “It’s not Luna's best, but it's the only studio of hers that isn’t constantly booked out by indie geeks and trashy producers. And the only one she lets me use. Says I make too much of a mess out of all the others.”

Humming softly in response, Lexa watches as Clarke reaches into the front pocket of her jeans and pulls out a white and red box, flipping the top off and pulling out a cig, placing it between her lips, before gesturing the box toward Lexa. “You want one?”

Lexa shakes her head, pulling a face. “Nah. Gross. But thanks, though."

Clarke frowns, before smirking as she puts a lighter to the end of her cig. “Let me guess, you’re so rich, you only smoke Sobranies and Dunhills?”

“I don’t smoke, actually.”

“Oh, ” Clarke lets out, lifting herself up off the couch quickly. “Oh. I should probably do it outside then. Sorr—"

Cutting Clarke off with a quiet laugh, Lexa puts her hand up. “Clarke, it’s fine. Stay there.”

Clarke eyes her cautiously, before her face softens and she throws herself back down onto the couch and proceeding to light the tip of her cigarette. “Sorry,” she utters around the paper. “Just never met someone in the industry who doesn’t smoke.”

Just as Lexa opens her mouth to respond, a text tone rings through the studio, coming from Clarke’s direction. She watches as the blonde peers at her phone and sighs, before locking it and placing it beside herself on the couch, running her fingers through the front of her hair.

“Boyfriend drama?” Lexa pries, partly joking, partly a little bit curious... because who wouldn’t be?

Clarke laughs, almost spitefully, “Guess it’s your turn to make assumptions now.” She turns onto her side to look at Lexa, slipping her cig out of her mouth and pursing her lips together. “But no. No boyfriend drama, fortunately. Just Raven, letting me know she can’t make it here tonight. Annoying, because I can’t do jack shit in the studio without her. But I’ll survive.” She sits up, reaching over to the table next to her and putting out her cig, throwing it into a small, ceramic ashtray and resting her arm against the side of the couch, tilting her head curiously.

“So, Lexa Woods. Tell me about yourself.”


	2. Chapter 2

i. 

Clarke Griffin has a way about her that is effortlessly and eternally... demanding. Challenging, almost. One glance in a person’s direction, and they feel like they’re being tested, put on trial.

In tonight's context, that person is Lexa. A silence hangs in the air of the studio as Lexa brainstorms a way to swerve Clarke’s request that she talks about herself. “Clarke, as much as I’d love to gossip with you, time is money. We should probably discuss… work.”

Momentarily thrown, the blonde frowns (maybe even pouts a little), before shrugging briefly. “You’re right. Any chance you know how to layer a double on Logic Pro? Rae was gonna help me with that tonight, so we can get moving with one of the new songs, but—“

“I’m not a producer, Clarke. I'm not here to do Raven’s job for her.”

“Mm. So, what is it that you _are_ here to do, exactly?” Clarke throws back quickly, and it wouldn’t take a genius to know that it isn’t a question as much as it is a vilification.

“Do you really care?” Lexa almost regrets the rebuke the second it leaves her mouth, but she doesn’t allow herself to try and take it back.

Clarke hums, eyes unreadable as she taps her fingers against the leather of the studio couch. “What ever will I do with you, Lexa?”

Sighing, Lexa looks up to the ceiling of the studio, willing the universe to give her some semblance of strength to get her through tonight. She knows Clarke’s just trying to pull her leg, and quite frankly, she isn’t in the mood. On any other night, she might play along, indulging in Clarke’s games, but tonight is not any other night. “Why— Why don’t you let me hear a demo from the record, or something? Let’s start somewhere.”

“You’re really not gonna give it up, huh?” Clarke murmurs under her breath, a stream of consciousness thought that was clearly meant for herself, but Lexa hears it loud and clear. She watches as Clarke lets out a breath, getting up off the couch, dragging herself over to one of the workstations where a laptop sits. She grabs it and saunters back over to the sofa, flumping herself down onto one end and gesturing towards the other as she opens up the laptop carelessly. “Come, sit. I’ll play you a couple of recordings.”

Lexa nods, padding her way over to the sofa and sitting herself down as Clarke reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a USB stick and a pair of headphones, both of which she plugs into the laptop. Something flashes through Clarke’s eyes briefly as she turns to face Lexa to pass her the headphones, not really making eye contact. Her confident facade has declined, Lexa notes, and if the way Clarke is biting her lip and flitting her eyes to the ground is anything to go by, she's nervous. “It’s— these are rough takes. They aren’t done. One of them is literally a recording done on voice memos, so...“

In spite of the way Lexa’s resolve breaks a little at the softer side of Clarke, who is ever blunt and ballsy, she couldn’t possibly turn down the opportunity to have the upper hand over the blonde, even if just for a moment. Clarke could definitely use being humbled, after all. “I have to say, a nervous Clarke Griffin is not something I thought I’d have the pleasure to witness in my lifetime.”

Clarke gapes slightly before she shoots a glare at Lexa, a hint of annoyance paired with self-assurance flashing through blue eyes. She doesn’t say anything more though, instead settling on giving Lexa one last deathly glare before turning back to the screen and hitting play on one of the files.

Lexa closes her eyes and lets herself relax into the sofa just slightly as she listens closely to the husky timbre of Clarke’s voice, tapping her fingers along to a few of the beats. And Lexa is surprised- pleasantly surprised- by what she hears. It’s not that she had low expectations of Clarke, or that she was unsure of what to expect. Everyone with a pair of ears and a brain knows that Clarke is one of the most talented rising artists of the moment, but Lexa is still dazed by what she hears. These songs are different, even for Clarke. Still moody and a little raspy, in Clarke’s usual style, but with an unusually intense, heavy quality to them— both lyrically and sonically. Definitely something Lexa can work with.

Finally opening her eyes and slipping the headphones out of her ears as the final recording finishes, Lexa brings herself back, peering over to Clarke. At some point in the midst of Lexa’s listening session, Clarke must have gotten up and started to busy herself around the studio, because the spot next to Lexa that the blonde had claimed is now vacant. Lexa spots her on the other side of the studio, mindlessly tidying up and humming to herself, phone in hand and another cigarette between her lips. A lump forms in Lexa’s throat as she takes note of Clarke’s change in appearance- she’d taken her hoodie off, and her hair is down now, mussed up blonde waves falling down her shoulders to her cleavage, now accentuated by a white tank top, low cut and fitting. And, jesus. Lexa swears she isn’t a terrible person, but she’d be a fool not to let her eyes linger there for a moment (respectfully, of course) while Clarke's busied by whatever’s on her phone screen. 

Allowing her mind to wander briefly, eyes moving over Clarke’s soft figure, Lexa feels a familiar curling sensation in her lower stomach as she entertains thoughts of kissing collarbones, caressing soft curves, swallowing husky moans. She notices a couple of faded hickeys trailing down the blonde's pale chest, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it. 

“See something you like?"

Lexa jolts slightly, startled out of her thoughts by Clarke’s casual tone. She blinks up at the blonde, who’s standing there, ever so smug and impish, cigarette between fingers as she blows out a puff of smoke. Subtle tones of guilt and embarrassment threaten Lexa, but Clarke doesn’t look insulted. If anything, she looks... satisfied. 

“You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” Lexa reproaches directly, ignoring Clarke’s taunt.

Clarke scoffs as she takes another drag. Spiteful. “And you say that because you just care _so_ _much_ about my health and wellbeing?”

“It’s not attractive,” Lexa states simply, and she knows it’s low, graceless, even for her. But she can’t stop herself; she feels an urge to get a rise out of this woman. 

Much to Lexa’s simultaneous disappointment and relief, Clarke’s response is restrained, a simple raise of eyebrows and a faint smirk, like she’s heard that statement a billion and one times before as she lifts the cig to her mouth again. 

Sighing, Lexa steers the conversation back to music, knowing better already than to entertain Clarke’s antics. “The songs are really good.”

“Yeah?” 

Lexa hums in response, filling up the silence. “Yeah. They definitely have a lot of potential. I definitely think we’ve got a lot of room to work with creating a proper vision for the record, which is perfect. A good starting point, for sure.”

“Thank god I have your approval. I don’t know what I’d do without it,” Clarke jokes, and there’s a bitterness to it which Lexa decides not to pay any mind to. 

For a little while, Clarke and Lexa make some small talk as Clarke messes around in the studio, experimenting with some new songs on the keyboard and playing around with the mixing desk. She talks Lexa through some of her ideas for concepts for the upcoming record, the events she’s been planning to book, who usually comes to the studio sessions, where she’s at with her label, and her upcoming gigs. 

“I’m playing a private gig this Friday at The Corenet, if you wanted to come. It’s an event for Polis, everyone from work’ll be there, and you can bring a friend. 5 or so songs, a shitload of free drinks. It’s fun. Something to celebrate the new record cycle,” Clarke offers, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “Here, put in your number and I’ll text you the details later.”

Lexa’s a little perplexed by Clarke’s assumption that she’s just going to be available to go to a gig on such short notice, or that she even wants to go, but she finds herself taking Clarke’s phone from her hand and typing her number in anyway. It’s manners, she tells herself. 

The studio session wraps up, Clarke stretching her hands above her head and yawning as she packs up her stuff, walking out with Lexa and locking the door behind her. Lexa waves goodbye to her as they both head to their cars, promising to text her back and let her know whether she’ll make it to the gig. 

It’s just manners.

ii.

The rest of Lexa’s week is packed with label meetings, phone calls with session musicians, coffee with label executives and stacks of paperwork.

She’d received a text from Clarke with the details of Friday’s gig soon after she arrived home from the studio on Monday night, and texted her back the following day, letting Clarke know that she’d see her there. 

By the time Friday rolls around, Lexa is exhausted. Not at all in the mood for a night out with loud music and sleazy men, but she’s a woman of her word. Thus, by 8pm, she’s in her car, windows down, on her way to the Coronet with Anya in the passenger seat. 

“What’s she like? Bet she’s a real brat,” Anya sniggers.

Lexa sighs. She’s already regretting bringing Anya along as her plus one, visualising the snarky comments she’ll make about and to the people Lexa works with, never biting her tongue. Lexa loves Anya, she does. They’ve been best friends since college, having shared a similar goal of moving to LA, both career-driven and keen to pursue their dreams. But from Anya, Lexa has learned that you can love someone dearly while also simultaneously despising them. Anya has a way about her of behaving like the big sister and the little sister all at once. She’s protective, ever-observant and judgemental of Lexa’s behaviour and decisions, but she’s irritating and childish, too. Ever provoking and punchable, is how Lexa would best describe Anya, especially right in this moment. While she isn’t necessarily wrong about Clarke, Lexa always has an urge to defend whoever the victim of Anya’s goading is in any given moment.

“I’m sure you two will get along like a house on fire, then,” Lexa smirks.

The venue is small and tightly packed, tainted with the vague scent of booze and old cigarette smoke. It's a sort of cabaret ideal for intimate performances and small gigs, with seats and tall tables spread throughout and a bar in one of the corners. Anya and Lexa find a table closer to the front, littered with a few people Lexa recognises from work, and a handful of unfamiliar faces.

“New girl made it!” Murphy calls out, holding his glass of beer up and nodding toward Lexa. Lexa laughs and sits down, greeting everyone and introducing them to Anya. She makes small talk with everyone at the table, getting to know some of the newer faces; Murphy’s girlfriend, Emori and Octavia’s boyfriend, Lincoln, among others. The group talk about work for a while, taking turns dragging on about their shitty weeks and how desperate they are to get blackout drunk. 

“Anyone down for some shooters before the show?” A familiar, raspy voice calls from behind them. Clarke. Lexa turns slightly, peering over her shoulder to see the blonde sauntering toward them, holding a circular tray filled with dozens of shot glasses, smirking softly.

“Fuck, yeah!” Octavia yells out, jumping out of her seat almost immediately before Bellamy holds a hand up to the group.

“I don’t think so. This is a work function. None of you are getting drunk off your face at all tonight, let alone this early on."

“Yeah. Especially not you, Griffin,” Raven adds, shooting Clarke a knowing look. Clarke and Octavia roll their eyes in such unison, it’s almost comical.

“Come on. Just one, at least. For good luck,” Clarke persuades, ever so convincing as she holds the tray out to the table, offering up the shots. No one has it in them to deny Clarke anything, and Lexa is no different as she takes a glass from the tray, giving the blonde a nod as they throw the shots back simultaneously, following the rest of the table. Lexa winces slightly as it hits her throat, running her tongue over her lips. Tequila.

“Not a fan?” Clarke questions, head tilting inquisitively to the side as she leans against the table, allowing Lexa to finally get a good look at her for the first time tonight. She’s done up, donning a full face of makeup, dark eyeshadow and bold mascara, and her hair's done, blonde waves falling to the side as she tilts her head. Under the dim lights of the venue, Lexa can’t quite make out her eyes, but her chest still tightens at the look she _knows_ Clarke is giving her. For a moment, it feels as though the people around them have disappeared, faded into nothing. Lexa is a fool for nobody, but she lately she has felt like Clarke has this sudden unspoken power over her, an ability to bring her to her knees without a single word. She swallows at the thought, pushing it to the back of her mind as she clears her throat.

“More of a whisky girl, myself,” Lexa says, and the words come out a lot croakier than she’d hoped. It’s not far from the truth; Lexa isn’t a huge drinker in general, but when it comes down to it, a trusty bourbon on the rocks always comes in clutch.

The blonde laughs under her breath, raising her eyebrows. “Wish I could say I’m surprised,” she husks, giving Lexa one last once-over, and then doing the same for Anya, her lips pulling into a faint smirk before she turns to the rest of the group, setting down the tray with the remaining shot glasses onto the table, straightening up. “Alright. Thanks for the fun, everyone, but I have a crowd to tend to. Catch you later."

Lexa swears she doesn’t watch longingly as Clarke turns on her heels, and she _definitely_ doesn’t let her eyes drift down momentarily to the blonde’s ass, tucked away cruelly in her black skinny jeans. And she definitely doesn’t care when she hears Anya snigger from beside her, something along the lines of ' _down, girl_.'

Turns out, Lexa _is_ a fan of tequila when it means she gets a buzz strong enough to suffocate any feelings that come up about a certain blonde. By the time the gig’s halfway through, Lexa’s three shots in. She’s not drunk, but things are blurry enough that it almost doesn’t ache to watch Clarke move sensually over the stage, running her fingers through her hair, sweat forming on her chest, gazing intently into the crowd. Things are blurry enough that Lexa can’t quite make out whether Clarke’s hooded eyes are looking into hers, or someone else’s, or no one’s. And things are blurry enough for Lexa not to care.

She’s tipsy enough to enjoy herself, to talk shit with Anya and sing along with the table, to laugh at Raven’s shitty jokes, and to actually be able to hold a conversation with Murphy without wanting to slap him in the face.

In the heat of the moment, listening to Clarke’s husky voice, surrounded by new friends, Lexa forgets everything. She forgets about everything that went down at her last job. She forgets about Costia and the ache of past lovers. She forgets about every shitty thing that’s happened to her in LA. She forgets the way Clarke can’t stand her. She forgets the way she can’t stand Clarke. (She forgets the way the last one isn’t true.) She forgets, and it’s good. It feels good.

The final song gives Lexa something new to try and forget about. Much to Lexa’s suffering, after 25 minutes of performing, Clarke’s movements have slowed, her entire demeanour shifting. She moves languidly now, and her voice is all but a melodic husk, deep and breathy. The song is slow and sexy, and Clarke matches its energy easily, running her hands over her body, hips moving in just the right way. And fuck, Lexa hates it. Hates this woman. But as much as she wants to tear her gaze away, she continues to look ahead with hooded eyes that follow every move, every bend, every curve of the woman on stage.

Lexa didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until Clarke finished up, the sound of claps and cheers pulling a breath of air from her. Running her fingers through her hair, Lexa lets out a breath before grabbing another shot off the tray and throwing it down her throat without hesitation.

She hears Anya let out a low whistle from beside her. “She’s good, I’ll give her that.”

“Yeah.”

As the night drags on, most people stay. Lexa has learned over the years that in the industry, a gig is never just a gig. Every gig, every event, is an opportunity to mingle, to make connections, and to get blackout (for some). Still buzzing, Lexa basks in the moment, getting to know some of the new faces. She’s in the middle of an in-depth conversation with Emori about Game of Thrones and its shitty ending when she feels a tap on her shoulder. It’s Luna.

“Wanna go grab a drink at the bar?” The woman asks, voice soft, her hand lingering on Lexa’s shoulder, running down her arm. And Lexa knows she should say no, knows she should just ask Anya to drive her home now. But something inside her doesn’t let her. She’s never been one to turn a lady down. So she smirks, nodding gently, following Luna through the building.

Luna is nice enough. She’s gorgeous, too, Lexa thinks. She can hold a good conversation, and something about her is hypnotising. Maybe it’s the way she’s so easy to make blush, and it boosts Lexa’s pride in just the right way.

Just as Lexa's about to call out to the bartender to bring out another round of drinks, she spots Clarke out the corner of her eye. With somebody. She feels an unfamiliar twinge in her stomach, eyes glued to the hand around the woman’s waist. Her stomach churns, and she turns away before she can see anything more, cursing herself mentally. She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t feel like this for anyone. Why is Clarke the outlier? 

Maybe it’s not about Clarke. It’s the alcohol catching up to her, she tells herself.

“Lexa? You feeling okay?” Luna’s voice is gentle in her ear, but it feels loud, shaking Lexa out of her thoughts.

Lexa smiles, bringing herself back down to earth as her eyes meet Luna’s. “Yeah, good. Just gonna get some fresh air. I’ll be back, okay?”

As the night air hits her, Lexa sighs, basking in it. She winces at the bitter taste that lingers in the back of her throat, leaning against the brick wall of the building, letting her eyes slip shut. She doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with her, but she knows enough to know she doesn’t like it.

“Fuck’s going on with you?” A voice comes from beside her. Clarke. Again. But it’s… different, this time. Same spiteful tone, different feeling. Clarke’s clearly drunk, slurring her words, but beneath that is a hint of something else. Hurt, maybe. Lexa can’t tell. Nonetheless, Lexa groans. She’s about to spit out something equally as malicious, but as she turns, she bites her tongue. Even in the darkness of the alleyway, Lexa can make out the ever so slight dampness of Clarke’s lashes. And of course, Lexa's curious, maybe even a little worried, but she wouldn’t dare show it.

“Could say the same for you,” Lexa mutters, turning away.

Turns out, Clarke couldn’t care less whether Lexa's interested what she has to say, because she spills anyway. “Men are so fucking stupid.”

Lexa purses her lips and clears her throat at the awkwardness of Clarke’s sudden, slurred explosion, but doesn’t dare interrupt.

“So fucking stupid. Expect so fucking much from me. Getting on my case every time I forget to respond to a text, because god forbid I’m busy, or maybe I just don’t want to talk to him.” There's silence for a moment, and Lexa thinks maybe Clarke's done, but she’s sorely mistaken as the woman picks back up on her tangent. “Come up, act all lovey-dovey, then start interrogating me on every single thing, like I owe him something. I don’t owe Finn anything. I owe him fucking nothing. I never promised him anything except sex. That was literally it. That’s all it ever was.”

Lexa is slightly shell-shocked, frozen in her spot. The things the woman is spitting out are harsh, raw, even for someone like Clarke. And Lexa wants to question, wants to know what happened in the 5 minutes between the PDA and her sudden outburst. But she doesn’t ask. Knows not to. Instead, she just looks over at Clarke, eyes running over her face, cold and bitter and vicious. Green meets blue for a split second, before Clarke flits her eyes away.

“Like, is it so wrong for me to want nothing more? Is it so fucking wrong? And, god. The entitlement. How can a man who can barely make me co-“

For future-Clarke’s sake, Lexa holds her hand up to the blonde, silencing her wordlessly. “I don’t know you, Clarke, or anything about you or your situation, but what I do know is that you are going to regret telling me all this by tomorrow."

A silence hangs in the air between them, and it’s heavy. Clarke’s face is unreadable as she bites her lip, finally lifting her head up to make eye contact. And, jesus, she’s practically shooting daggers at Lexa. And then, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

Lexa chokes on air, keeping silent. She’s still drunk, but not drunk enough to feed into Clarke’s drunken rambles.

“Do you want to fuck me, Lexa?” Clarke repeats, harsher, and this time it sounds more like a statement than a question. She’s stumbled closer to Lexa, now close enough for Lexa to feel her breath against her skin, detect the faint smell of smoke and alcohol. 

Lexa looks up, willing herself to sober up. Willing Clarke to sober up. “You’re drunk, Clarke.”

Despite her fuzzy state, Clarke gets the message, shifting away slightly. Lexa sighs out in relief, and lets her gaze gently wander back to the blonde. Clarke’s mascara is smudged, her hair mussed, and she looks absolutely out of it as she slouches back against the building.

Lexa sighs, running her fingers through her choppy hair before turning to Clarke, attempting to console the woman despite her own tipsy state. “Let's— let’s get you home.” She wraps her arm around Clarke’s waist, giving her something steady to lean on as she walks them back into the venue, through the crowd of people, searching the room for someone, anyone, who can do a better job taking care of Clarke than she can. She ignores the bolt of electricity that shoots through her as she feels Clarke’s body press against hers, ignores the warmth that spreads throughout her body. She notices Luna still at the bar, and throws her a remorseful look, mouthing a short _sorry_. The woman just smiles back at her, giving her a knowing nod. Lexa imagines Luna knows exactly what’s going on, that she’s seen Clarke in this state more times than she can count on one hand. Or two. Or three.

At last, Lexa spots Raven in the sea of people. She’s standing with Anya, in a way that’s definitely not friendly— their bodies touching, hands roaming over each other, and Lexa smirks slightly at the sight before yelling out to Raven and waving her over, throwing her an urgent look. And Raven, bless her soul, pushes Anya off like she was never there, shooting over to Clarke and Lexa. “What’s up?”

“She’s really drunk. Needs to go home,” Lexa explains, stumbling over her words as she holds Clarke’s weight up against her.

“She’s not the only one, by the looks of it,” Raven points out.

“Seriously, Raven. Just— just get someone to take her home.”

Raven nods, understanding. “Okay. Do you have someone to take you?”

“Yeah,” Lexa tilts her head over to Anya. “Her. I’ll be fine.”

And the look on Raven’s face is almost comical, eyes wide as realisation hits her. “Oh,” she lets out. “Oh. Are you two…”

Lexa barks out a laugh, disbelieving. “No. God, no,” she sniggers, “Go for it, Raven.”

Raven smirks, patting Lexa on the shoulder and letting Clarke slip into her arms. Raven gives her one last look, a silent ‘ _thank you_ ’, and Lexa just nods, heading back to Anya, who’s still donning rejection on her sleeve. 

In the passenger seat of her car, Lexa slumps, her body aching, the night finally hitting her as her eyes slip shut.

Lexa is never fucking drinking again. Especially not around Clarke Griffin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea where this is going, lol. just trying to set the tone for the story atm, sorry if it's a little messy. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note that I do not condone reckless driving or the refusal to address one’s feelings

i.

Clarke is never drinking again. 

That’s what she vows to herself as she lifts her head out of the toilet bowl and drags her body up off the bathroom floor, agonisingly slow. 

Mustering up the energy to look in the mirror, Clarke groans at the sight in front of her. Blonde hair all over the place, makeup smeared over pale cheeks, last nights clothes creased and tarnished. She places her hand over her head as it throbs, and reaches blindly into the cupboard below the sink to grab out a packet of Advil and a glass.

As she fills up the glass and gulps down the capsules, a sudden knock comes at the door of her apartment, and then comes a voice that belongs to no other than Raven Reyes. Clarke groans, bending over the sink, mentally willing her best friend to go home. 

“Clarkey!” Raven calls, obnoxiously chirpy as she bangs harshly on the door of Clarke’s apartment. 

“Fuck off, Raven.”

“I have bud and some greasy food,” Raven lures persuasively, and Clarke lifts her head slightly at the proposal.

“Just leave it at the door.”

“And let you smoke _my_ weed and eat _my_ Mickie D’s without me? As if. Let me in.”

Raven’s right, and Clarke knows it. She sighs, defeated, splashing her face quickly with water and dragging herself out of the bathroom, grumpily yanking open her apartment door to see a satisfied Raven. 

Without greeting her, Clarke just grabs the brown paper bag and ziplock baggie from her friend’s hands, turning back into her apartment as Raven follows behind, inviting herself in. She grabs Clarke by the shoulder, turning her back around. 

“What?” Clarke snaps incredulously. 

“You look like shit, Griff,” Raven states blandly, giving Clarke a once over. “Get out of those musty ass clothes, take a shower, brush your teeth, and then we can eat.”

Clarke glares at her, but she doesn’t respond. She has learned over the years that any attempt to try and argue with Raven is futile. 

“Do as I say, or you stay hungry and don’t get to get baked. I’ll roll up while you shower.”

And so she does, because as much as she hates Raven, in this moment, she would get on her knees for anyone who offered her fast food and some good hash. 

Post-shower, Clarke gets dressed, slipping into some sweatpants and a thick hoodie. Finn’s hoodie, she remembers briefly, but she doesn’t have it in her to care. It’s hers now, anyway. She heads back out to the living room, throwing herself down next to Raven onto the sofa, reaching into the McDonald’s bag and shoving a handful of fries into her mouth. 

“So, you wanna talk about last night?” Raven asks, and it’s cautious, wary as she passes a freshly rolled joint to Clarke.

As Clarke reaches over to the coffee table to grab her lighter, she begins to recall last night for the first time this morning. She cringes at her drunk antics, at what happened with Finn. And her stomach churns when she thinks of Lexa. The memory is blurry, but she knows it wasn’t pretty. She laughs bitterly, settling on brushing off the question and hoping Raven leaves it at that. “Yeah. I performed, got totally wasted on tequila, and someone had to drag my sorry ass home. Can we talk about something else?”

Raising an eyebrow, Raven doesn’t let the conversation finish there. “Finn?”

Clarke’s relieved that it's Finn’s name that comes out of Raven’s mouth, but nonetheless, still exasperated at the mere thought of talking about anything that happened last night, she groans, waving her hand dismissively in Raven’s direction as she puts the spliff to her lips. 

“Seriously, Clarke. You told me things were fine 5 days ago. As far as I was concerned, you and Finn stopped whatever you were doing months ago. And then suddenly, one minute you’re making out with him, dancing on him without leaving room for Jesus, and then the next minute you’re practically spitting in his eye and storming off. I don’t—“

“It doesn’t matter, Raven. We’re not doing anything anymore. He’s an entitled, manipulative piece of shit,” Clarke explains, and the words are harsh, but her tone isn’t. “Just... yes, we were still fucking. Sometimes. And that’s all it was to me, but he expected more. So much more. And I can’t give that to him. I don’t _want_ to give that to him.”

Raven’s face morphs into something unreadable, leaning back into the sofa as she takes in Clarke’s words. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No. God, he’s not that bad. Just… he wants more from me than I can give, I guess. And I thought I made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t looking for anything more than a little fun, but obviously it wasn't clear enough."

It’s part of the truth. She knows that realistically, she has lead Finn on. They’ve been on and off for about a year now, and though what they have was never anything profound or special, there was a point in time where Clarke felt something for Finn. And at that point, she knew she had to bail, knew she had to put a clear boundary between them. So they stopped spending so much time together, had sex with a lot of other people, and they’d only really see each other at events, and when they’d hook up every now and again on Clarke’s loneliest nights, despite the anger between them. Clarke feels nothing for him anymore, aside from the lingering sense of heartache and loss. But despite the time that has passed, Finn is still holding onto the hope that someday soon, Clarke might turn around. And Clarke swears she’s not a terrible person, but until last night she was yet to put her foot down, drill it into his head that it's never going to happen.

“So you snapped on him last night, then?” Raven asks, still visibly puzzled by the situation. Blurred lines within relationships are not out of character for Clarke, but her messy love life still throws Raven every time, nonetheless.

“Yeah, and it was fucking great,” Clarke grins as she takes another hit, slowly letting herself drift. “Okay, I’m over talking about this now. I’m putting on Marie Kondo. Always hits different when I'm zooted.”

And Clarke spends the rest of her day lounging on the sofa with Raven, all ears on Marie Kondo as though she’s a prophet, mentally jotting down every word of the Konmari Method like it’s a gospel.

The rest of Clarke’s weekend pretty much follows suit, with her committing to a lonely Sunday of awful Netflix romcoms, a truckload of Chinese food, and her trusty vibrator. Self care at its finest, is what she tells herself. Anyone in the industry can rarely call their Saturdays and Sundays a weekend, with each day of the week blurring into one giant muddle of gigs, meetings, studio sessions and shoots. So who would Clarke be to not take advantage of the luxury that is a Real Weekend? After all, she deserves to let herself forget about the week behind her. By Monday, she’ll be a changed woman.

ii.

One thing Lexa was not warned of before committing to a lifetime of working within the music industry was the amount of hours that are spent cooped up in an office, making monotonous phone calls to booking agents and making business-talk in meetings with excruciatingly boring men. 

Lexa enjoys what she does, so she doesn’t dread the day ahead of her, but she’s not exactly eager as she swipes her access card in the lobby of Polis Records, tapping her foot as she waits for the elevator door to open as it dings.

Not in the headspace to talk to some run down intern or shallow industry plant, she’s selfishly relieved when she steps into an empty elevator. Hitting the button for the fourth floor, she leans back against the wall and settles as the lift doors begin to shut. Unfortunately, her moment of zen is rudely interrupted by the hand of no other than Clarke Griffin, reaching between the doors, forcing them back open. The universe hates Lexa, she decides. 

Expecting some snarky comment from Clarke the second she makes her presence known in the elevator, Lexa’s surprised to be met with the silence that follows. The blonde turns out to be uninterested in Lexa’s presence, eyes down and glued to her phone as she mindlessly hits one of the elevator buttons. And Lexa thought she’d be ecstatic to see the day that Clarke abstained from taking some sarcastic jab at her or somebody else, but it turns out that Lexa isn’t sure she’s a fan of this new, quiet Clarke. 

A fog of something unknown sits between the two as they ride the elevator. Flashes of Friday night blare through Lexa’s head, loud and unrestrained. A bitter taste of rises in her throat, forcibly peeling her eyes away from Clarke as her mind begins to wander to someplace unforgiving. 

Silence unbearable, Lexa speaks up, “You know, you spend a lot of time in the office for someone who calls themselves an artist.”

Clarke’s laugh is short with a hint of bite as the elevator reaches the third floor and she steps out, before stopping briefly, turning back to Lexa. “Maybe if people like you actually did your jobs, I wouldn’t have to.”

There it is. 

With incredible effort, Lexa sucks in a deep breath, balling her hands into fists as she watches Clarke walk away.

Much to her shame, Lexa ruminates on Clarke’s remark for the rest of her morning. When she’d woken this morning, she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t hold Clarke’s drunken slip-ups against her. But now, a fire burns inside her, something screaming at her to find Clarke, to intimidate her into a corner and sneer at her, remind her of the crude words she’d breathed out to Lexa so plainly in that alleyway less than 72 hours ago. But Lexa is better than that. Maybe Clarke isn’t above taunts and mockery, but Lexa is. 

A knock comes at the glass door of Lexa’s office, pulling her out of her reverie. She doesn’t have a chance to discern who it is or to call them in before they’re inviting themselves in, and from that alone, Lexa knows it’s Clarke. She doesn’t bother to look up at her, only letting out a sharp “What?”, continuing to work through the paperwork on her desk, arguably too aggressively. 

“Jesus, sorry,” Clarke holds her hands up defensively, smirking, “Clearly someone needs to get laid.” And it takes everything Lexa has to not throw back something along the lines of ‘ _you’re one to talk,’_ or a jab at how Clarke’s shitty boyfriend can’t even make her come _._ But she restrains herself, because she’s a good person. Leaning back in her chair, she finally tilts her head up, eyes meeting Clarke’s as the blonde continues to speak.

She watches as Clarke’s mouth moves, and Lexa wishes she could say she knew what Clarke was talking about, but her head is somewhere else. She takes note of how good the blonde looks, how normal, how with a brush of her hair and a touch of makeup she has easily tucked away the mess of the weekend, of Friday night. 

“Lexa?”

Humming low in her throat, Lexa shakes herself out of her thoughts. “Hm?”

“Bellamy said you needed to see me,” Clarke says slowly, as if making sure Lexa hears it loud and clear. “Something about booking some shoots for new promo.”

Lexa nods dumbly. “Right. Of course. Sit down,” she utters, gesturing toward the seat on the other side of her desk. 

She talks Clarke through the set of photographers they have to look through to find the best potential candidate for Clarke’s vision. Clarke isn’t speaking, only nodding her head faintly in response, eyes glazed over, and Lexa can tell she’s miles away, uninterested. 

Defeated once again, Lexa sighs, shutting her laptop. “You say I don’t do my job, but that’s because you won’t let me.”

Nothing. For once, Clarke has nothing to say back. No witty comeback. No snarky response. At least Lexa assumes so, from the few beats of silence that follow her words. 

Until, “It’s your fault you let me have that much power over you, Lexa.”

And, god, of course she would say that. Of course it’s a Lexa problem. Why wouldn’t it be? 

Clarke continues, casual and blatant. “Seriously. Neither of us is in charge here. You inspire me enough, I’ll get to work. And then we’re both doing our jobs. It’s a two way street.” 

It begins to make sense to Lexa why Clarke’s team was so desperate to find her an A&R at this middle-ground point her career, without Clarke’s approval. Why each and every responsibility has been dumped cruelly onto Lexa. Why Clarke can’t stand the sight of Lexa. She’s high maintenance, too much to handle, and her team wants the burden of her off their hands, passed to some other undeserving soul. 

In the heat of frustration, Lexa stands up, wandering slowly to the other side of the desk. “You say neither of us is in charge, but I know you think you’re above me, Clarke,” she hisses, looking her square in the eye as she hovers above her. “But you aren’t. And I know you’re used to working with people who you can walk all over, push away with your scare tactics, win over with your looks, but that isn’t me. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck what you have going on in your life. I don’t give a fuck how you talk to me. I don’t give a fuck if you’re attractive. I don’t give a fuck what you want from me. I’m just here to do my job. Take it or leave it.”

The air is thick between them as Lexa shoots daggers with her gaze, but Clarke’s resolve doesn’t shake as she rises to her feet, something obscure crossing through her eyes as Lexa searches them. She watches as Clarke’s tongue swipes through her lips, red and slow as it wets them. Naturally, Lexa’s gaze follows the movement, hypnotised and dizzy. Before Lexa knows it, Clarke’s parted lips are moving closer, and Lexa is leaning in against her will, and-

And then Clarke is recoiling, her lips upturning into a small, knowing smirk. “That’s what I thought,” Clarke murmurs lowly, satisfaction laced through her voice and sprinkled over her features, and Lexa knows exactly what she means.

Watching wordlessly Clarke turns on her heels and leaves, stilettos clicking against the tile flooring stridently, Lexa stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do with herself. She grits her teeth, trying to decipher whether she’s exasperated or plain turned on by what just happened. Definitely the latter, but she settles on the former for the sake of her pride.

iii.

Things are… different, after that day. After the Office Incident. And Lexa doesn’t know whether the series of events that happen next are simply a coincidence, or if Clarke is trying to prove some sort of a point. And, to be completely honest, she couldn’t care less.

The first time Lexa sees Clarke after the Office Incident is the following evening. She’d received a text from Clarke earlier in the day, simple and unambiguous, letting her know that she’d be in the studio tonight at 6 to meet with a new producer, and that Lexa should come along to meet them too. So, Lexa, being the civil, gracious person she is, had texted back a simple ‘ _Will see you there’_ , despite any second thoughts.

When Lexa steps into the studio at 6pm on the dot, she immediately regrets her decision to not take into account any of said second thoughts. 

On the far end of the studio, she can barely make out Clarke’s figure, fully clothed, pinned against a wall at the hands of an unknown man. At first, Lexa’s fight or flight is triggered, a chaste urge to protect Clarke building up inside her, but when she hears Clarke’s low giggle and an inaudible whisper, she knows what this is. A lump forms in her throat at the moan that slips through Clarke’s lips as the man trails his lips down her neck, her eyes flitting closed, blissfully unaware of Lexa’s presence. 

Lexa clears her throat audibly, watching with half-amusement and half-bitterness as the dark haired man pulls back suddenly, eyes wide as he turns to Lexa, standing oddly as he readjusts his pants slightly.

“Is that a mic in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Lexa jokes before she can stop herself, and she doesn’t know why she’d say that. She barely makes jokes. _Too late to take it back now_. 

She makes eye contact with Clarke, and her head spins at the sight. The blonde doesn’t look shocked or embarrassed, not even a little. She’s smirking slightly, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, her hair mussed and cheeks tinted with red, pupils blown beneath hooded eyelids as she breathes heavily, before she speaks up, husky and cracked. “Lexa, this is Cillian. Cillian, Lexa.”

Lexa eyes the man in front of her, giving him a once-over. The producer, she thinks briefly. He’s still laughing slightly (albeit awkwardly) at Lexa’s quip, and for that she is thankful. All the same, he looks like every other man in the industry- dark hair, scruffy stubble, crass smirk. Nothing special, but what would Lexa know?

Lexa hums nevertheless, giving him a polite nod. “Producer, I’m guessing?” When he nods, Lexa continues, her voice lowering by a few octaves. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Fucking in the studio’s a waste of your time and your money, and it still makes you look cheap. Think smart, not hard.”

She doesn’t bother to scrutinise the look on the faces of Clarke or her new lover. She simply throws herself down onto the nearest chair, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Right. Where were we?”

The next time Lexa sees Clarke is on the dance floor at a flashy industry party. 

It’s a fairly large function, with a collection of hundreds of different producers, managers and artists from all different record labels. Lexa had settled on going for a few hours to enjoy a couple of drinks, mingle with some new faces, and then go home. No getting wasted, no taking girls home, no comforting drunk women in any alleyways. Nothing stupid. No bad decisions.

Lexa will admit, the act of making bad decisions is not new territory to her. Amongst her friends, she was previously infamous for having a new girl on each arm every other weekend. She’s done plenty of fooling around with other women in the industry, often artists and managers. It was fun, and at the beginning of her career in the industry, something to keep her mind off the fresh wound of college heartbreak. Merely a distraction, an enjoyable one. And the benefits and boosts it gave her career came as an added bonus, too.

However, Lexa made the silent vow to herself that at her new job, things would be different. She’d get her shit together. Not to say she’d be celibate, but to say she’d learn to seperate her work life from her love life (if that’s even what one can call the act of having a different hookup each weekend.) No more taking home girls from industry parties. No more fooling around in the studio. No more industry girls, period. And tonight, she’s not breaking that vow. Not the way she did almost _twice_ last weekend.

That is, until an unfamiliar face appears in front of Lexa, luring her onto the dance floor. A pretty face. And who is Lexa to deny a pretty face anything?

So she lets herself be dragged into the undulating sea of people by this nameless woman, falling into a rhythm on the dance floor, losing herself in the moment as she grips the woman’s hips with one hand, roaming her body with the other, allowing their breath to mingle as their lips brush.

As she’s rocking her hips against the woman in front of her, she notices Clarke out of the corner of her eye. Attached at the hip to another person, of course. A woman, for a change, Lexa notes. Not one that Lexa can identify. 

(Not that she cares.)

She catches Clarke’s eye for just a moment as she turns her head slightly, and Lexa could’ve sworn Clarke was staring right into her eyes as the blonde ground up against the other woman.

Lexa swallows, pulling herself out of her thoughts and keeping her eyes trained on the woman in front of her (unbeknownst to her name, still). Before she knows it, she’s leaning down, brushing her lips against an ear, breathing out a low, “Want to take this back to my place?”

And she feels Clarke’s eyes burning holes into the back of her head as the brunette woman grabs Lexa’s hand, pulling her through the sea of bodies, to the door of the venue.

Somewhere deep down, Lexa knows this is a bad decision. But even deeper down, she doesn’t care. Not in this moment.

The third time Lexa sees Clarke after the Office Incident is in another meeting at Polis the following Monday, alongside the rest of her management team.

The pair were fairly civil throughout the meeting, only exchanging fleeting glances for brief moments, when needed. 

Of course, though, Clarke’s unable to handle any level of civility for too long. When the meeting finishes, she calls for Lexa to stay behind, to ‘ _cover a couple of other things.’_ Lexa gives Clarke a dirty look at her words, but does as she’s asked. Because she’s Clarke’s bitch, apparently.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Griffin?” Lexa asks, adding in the formalities pettily as she busies herself with rearranging the sheets of paper she’d been handed in the meeting. Clarke doesn’t respond immediately, and her face is unreadable as Lexa looks toward her, signing. “If it’s about your schedule, I don’t want to hear it. Talk to Murphy about it. I’m not responsible for any double bookings—"

“I just wanted to check in and see how you’ve been doing,” Clarke interrupts, plain, but somehow… softer than usual. More genuine.

Lexa can’t help but laugh, though, as she raises her eyebrows at Clarke. She doesn’t know Clarke very well, but what she does know is that Clarke is the kind of person who uses a tone like that when there’s something she wants, or when there’s bad news to be shared. No reason to exude softness where it isn’t needed. “I’m fine. What do you want, Clarke?”

Clarke shrugs, wandering closer to Lexa ever so slightly, leaning against the conference table. She tilts her head in the curious way she does, and Lexa shifts uncomfortably on her feet. 

“Maybe you just need to get it out of your system.”

Frowning, Lexa meets Clarke’s eyes. Her mind races briefly, trying to calculate what’s going though Clarke’s head. “Sorry?”

“We should have sex.”

And Lexa won’t lie, her self-assurance falters at the way the lewd words slip so easily, so faultlessly from Clarke’s lips. Her lips. Her lips, so tantalising and red as her tongue swipes across them.

“We should have sex. So you can get this—“ Clarke pauses as she gestures at the space between her and Lexa, “—out of your system.”

Lexa actually laughs at that. Incredulous and resentful. Not at the chaos of it all, but at Clarke’s haughtiness, the very arrogance of the words she utters so confidently, so easily.

“Come on. God knows you want to, and I could use getting—“

And that’s it. Lexa can’t stop herself as she steps forward and pushes Clarke up against the table, holding her hips as her thigh pushes between Clarke’s legs. “Is this what you want, Clarke?” It’s all but a snarl as she moves her leg just slightly, just enough to get a response out of Clarke; the subtle darkening of her eyes, the almost unnoticeable tilt of her head toward the ceiling, exposing her neck just so. “Yeah? Then grow the fuck up, and just say it.”

And with that, Lexa steps away, not even chancing another look at Clarke as she grabs her paperwork and her laptop, steering herself out of the room. 

iv.

Lexa sees no shame in enjoying the finer things in life. When she was first coming to terms with her identity as an androgynous lesbian and developing her more masculine side, she shied away from all forms of luxury, thinking it took away from her vigour, from her identity. Over the years though, she has learnt that her love for candles and baths and wine can coexist with her love for sport and Bruce Willis films and whisky. 

Hence, Lexa’s spending her Monday night in her bath, surrounded by sandalwood candles, sipping from a glass of Monterey Pinot Noir as the luxurious classical chords of Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1” drift between the four walls of her bathroom. 

As the water around her begins to become more tepid, she sighs, lifting herself out of the tub and reaching to grab her towel. She briefly dries her hair, using the towel to scruff up her curls before wrapping it around herself. 

Her phone vibrates in her hand as she grabs it and pauses the music, the shrill sound of a text tone ringing through the small room. Lexa peers down to the screen, and sighs when she sees Clarke’s name. 

Reluctantly (and maybe a little willingly) sliding her finger across the screen, she frowns. There’s no message, just a pin drop to a location sent from Clarke. She waits a few moments expectantly, curious. 

And then, 2 more messages:

_Apt 13_

_I need to get it out of my system, too_

And that’s it. The three dots in the message bubble illustrating that Clarke will elaborate now disappear, and Lexa is left to her own devices. 

Lexa Woods has made an abundance of shitty decisions in her time. What’s one more?

Lexa’s never gotten dressed and ready faster and more willingly in whole her life than she did tonight, and it’s 8pm on a Monday night. Too see someone she can’t stand. It’s funny how things work, sometimes. 

She thanks the gods or whoever’s up there that she doesn’t get done for reckless driving on her way to Clarke’s apartment, because she’s definitely going faster than 35 miles down La Cienga Boulevard. 

Lexa thought she’d regret it the minute she found herself standing outside Clarke Griffin’s apartment. Thought she’d be mentally scolding herself as her knuckles wrapped against the wooden door of Apartment 13. Thought she’d have cleared her head enough over the 10 minute drive to know better than not to turn on her heels when Clarke opens the door. 

But, god, Lexa regrets nothing when she’s greeted by tousled blonde hair and dark eyes and a generous body barely covered by a loose white button up shirt only half done up, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

She regrets absolutely nothing the moment a warm hand curls around her neck, pulling her in, effortless and enticing despite the way Clarke’s stumbling over her feet as Lexa pushes her inside, letting the door shut behind them. 

“I can’t stand you,” Lexa breathes out, but she knows the broken crack of her voice and the way her hands are roaming over the body in front of her lets Clarke know she feels anything but. 

Ever contrary and stubborn, Clarke tilts her head up slightly to meet Lexa’s eyes, husking out a low “Prove it,” as she grabs one of Lexa’s hands that’s gripping her hip, lifting it instead to the buttons of her shirt. Clarke’s other hand, still curled around Lexa’s neck, pulls her closer, forcing their lips together in a sloppy kiss; filthy, lewd, and fucking perfect. Clarke tastes minty and faintly of cigarettes, heavy and intoxicating somehow, just as Lexa expected as her tongue explores Clarke’s mouth eagerly, desperately. Lexa’s already sure she’s done for just from the way Clarke tastes, so when Clarke begins to moan softly into the kiss, Lexa damn near blacks out. She’s sure Clarke wants her dead. 

Her fingers are digging into Clarke’s hip through the linen fabric of her shirt hard enough to bruise, and Lexa barely manages to swallow the moan that threatens to slip through her lips at the thought of marking Clarke, leaving bruises all over milky flesh with her fingers and her mouth. Her fingertips dig in harder at the thought in a futile attempt to restrain herself from just shoving Clarke up against the nearest wall and fucking her all night, but her fantasies are only encouraged further by the way Clarke pulls her mouth away to gasp at the contact, wordlessly letting Lexa know she has the same ideas. 

On Clarke’s top half, Lexa’s fingers are still fumbling desperately with the buttons of her shirt. It feels clumsy, messy on Lexa’s behalf, like Clarke’s still in charge, still winning, even as she’s pinned against the wall, seemingly at Lexa’s mercy. And Lexa wishes she had it in her to be embarrassed at how desperate she is to get her hands and mouth all over Clarke, feel her throbbing and heady beneath her in the most intimate of ways. 

Making no effort to mask her eagerness, Lexa’s hand is impatient as it pops the last button of Clarke’s shirt. She bites her lip so hard she swears she tastes blood as Clarke shrugs the linen from her body, leaving herself raw and exposed, unashamed as she pulls her lip between her teeth, satisfaction written all over her face when Lexa lets out a soft whimper at the sight. 

Clarke’s body is generous; soft and curvaceous and enticing in the most unabashedly sexy manner. Her breasts are heaving with the force of her laboured breaths, round and ample and begging to be touched and kissed and bitten. 

“Knew you’d be a boob girl,” Clarke husks, and Lexa’s too distracted by the low rasp of Clarke’s tone, the rising and falling of her chest, to dwell on why Clarke would’ve ever even thought about that. 

Brooding later, boobs now. 

Lexa’s body thrums at the soft sighs coming from Clarke as she dips her head down, attaching her lips to the generous mounds of flesh, nipping and sucking. She hums lowly around a taut nipple when Clarke’s hands tangle in her hair, pawing, coaxing Lexa closer as if there’s any space left between them. 

Just as Lexa begins to let her hand travel south, the hand in her hair tugs hard, pulling her upward. 

“Fucking in a doorway? Classy,” Clarke pants out as they come face to face again, and Lexa just laughs bitterly. Because of course Clarke would still make a jab when her tit is literally in Lexa’s mouth. Of course she would. 

“Fine,” Lexa breathes out. She hoists Clarke up off the ground, who happily wraps her legs around Lexa’s hips in response, and it’s comfortable. Almost too comfortable for Lexa’s liking.

It’s in that moment that Lexa realises she has no sense of where she’s taking Clarke. Biting her lip determinedly, she blindly navigates through the dimly lit apartment until she reaches what can only be a kitchen counter.

She nips at Clarke’s neck, sucking fresh bruises into pale skin before she gently places her down on the edge of the counter. “Better?”

“Not really, but I pity you, so I’ll accept it,” Clarke murmurs, and it’s an obvious attempt to sound sour, but the annoyance in her tone carries just a hint of fondness that gives her away. 

And Lexa wants to poke fun back at Clarke, but out of her own mere pity for the blonde (and maybe a bit of her own desperation), she drops to her knees, reaching to pull Clarke’s panties down, discarding them somewhere across the room. She hears Clarke let out the faintest whimper as Lexa comes face to face with her cunt, and Lexa reciprocates the sound as the blonde spreads her legs farther, giving Lexa the most glorious view between plush, perfect thighs. Clarke’s soaking, practically dripping, crimson lips petaled open perfectly for Lexa’s eyes only. 

With no patience for teasing, Lexa hoists Clarke’s knees over her shoulders, holding her legs open, and dives right in. 

Lexa quickly learns that Clarke has no shame in showing her enthusiasm, that she’s just as unabashed and immodest during sex as she is in life. Her sounds and her movements are just as generous as her body when Lexa leans in and gives Clarke’s cunt a sloppy, wet kiss. Clarke lets out a deep, filthy moan, her hand reaching for the back of Lexa’s head, gripping, pulling her in closer, shamelessly smothering her as she lifts her hips up to meet Lexa’s mouth in a slow, steady grind. 

With previous partners and hookups, Lexa has always taken on the more dominant role, deriving her pleasure from the ability to have her lover weak at the knees for her, her ability to please another woman and have them completely at her mercy, reducing them down to nothing but breathy moans and soft whimpers, and it’s good. Good enough. But this... this is better by a landslide. Having a woman— not just any woman, but Clarke— above her, hand in her hair, moaning unabashedly, using Lexa’s mouth, working for her pleasure just as much as Lexa is... is something different. 

(Lexa tells herself it doesn’t mean anything. Just that her and Clarke have similar needs in this moment, and there’s no reason not to fulfil them.)

“Oh, Lexa...” Clarke breathes out when Lexa begins to gently probe at her entrance with her tongue, and Lexa hums gratefully at the gush of wetness that follows. Chancing a look Clarke, Lexa feels molten heat flood her own underwear at what she sees. Above her, she can make out Clarke with her head thrown back, a hand on her own boob, gripping hard as it bounces slightly with the force of her movements. The sight, paired with the heavy, musky taste of Clarke flooding her mouth, renders Lexa unable to prevent herself from moaning into Clarke’s cunt, and the action must send a vibration straight through the blonde if the way that her movements against Lexa’s mouth speed up is anything to go by. 

Lexa slips her tongue into silky heat once more, before dragging it up to Clarke’s clit, circling it as her finger teases back around the entrance, massaging through wet heat, just feeling. Lexa pulls her mouth back, finger still teasing around Clarke’s entrance as she breathes out a soft, “Is this okay?” It’s half genuine, half teasing. 

“Jesus. Shut up. Yes,” Clarke hisses, and there’s a bite to it. Right. Because Clarke still hates Lexa. And they’re only doing this to get it out of their systems. By tomorrow, none of this will mean anything.

The thought is disappointing, and not particularly sexy, so Lexa doesn’t dwell on it. 

Instead, she chooses to relish in Clarke’s cry of sheer relief as two fingers slide easily into her cunt, stretching her just so. There’s little resistance, but Clarke’s walls still grip Lexa’s fingers like a vice when they slip inside fully. Lexa can’t suppress the moan that slips through her lips at the feeling, indulging in the way Clarke’s cunt suckles on her fingers perfectly, the sloppy noises it makes as she begins to pump them slowly.

“Oh, god,” Clarke all but sobs as Lexa curls her fingers upward, rubbing on the soft bundle of nerves on Clarke’s front wall. Tilting her head, Lexa begins to flick her tongue gently against Clarke’s clit, and she almost laughs at the way the hand in her hair tightens in immediate response. She lets Clarke hold her in position, stiffening her tongue for Clarke use her once again, allowing her to take what she needs. 

“Yeah, just like that— fucking take it,” Clarke babbles, and Lexa swears if Clarke doesn’t come some time soon, she’s going to come herself from the mere sight and sound of Clarke right now. Much to Lexa and her poor neglected vagina’s suffering, Clarke doesn’t let up on making her pleasure and her needs known. “Another one... need another one.”

And Lexa immediately obeys, pulling out only to add another finger into the mix, smothering herself against Clarke’s cunt as the woman above her lets out the most obscene moan she’s ever heard in her life. Lexa all but prays that her neck can make it through the night without breaking as Clarke begins to move herself against Lexa’s tongue and fingers at a (literally) breakneck speed, not holding back, only chasing her own pleasure. 

Lexa finds herself letting out another desperate moan in response to Clarke’s newfound vigour and desperation. Yearning to please Clarke, she curls her fingers once more as Clarke fucks herself against them, and then wraps her lips around Clarke’s clit, sucking hard. 

And what happens next is a sight from heaven itself. 

Clarke’s whole body locks up, freezing momentarily before her release begins to rack through her. She cries out, placing one hand behind her on the counter, the other still holding Lexa in place against her cunt, grinding perfectly against her at a speed Lexa can only keep up with by keeping impossibly still, letting Clarke’s hand guide her. Lexa’s jaw is aching at this point, but she doesn’t have it in her to care, all of her senses attuned to Clarke’s glorious sounds and movements and her taste and her scent— god, her rich, heady scent. 

Lexa can only growl in the back of her throat as Clarke’s walls begin to clench rhythmically around her fingers, in time with her own husky moans and Lexa’s harsh thrusts.

As Clarke finally reaches her peak, Lexa can do nothing but whimper at the sight. And at that thought, the knowledge that Clarke still has the upper hand over her— she’s spurred on. 

As Clarke continues to pulsate uncontrollably, her thighs shaking as she bucks sporadically against Lexa’s mouth, Lexa speeds up the pace of her fingers, suctions her whole mouth around Clarke’s cunt, and starts flicking her tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves there hastily. 

And that’s what does it. Again. “Lexa!” Clarke screams, and she pulses, harder this time. A sudden gush of wetness covers Lexa’s fingers as she fucks them in and out, and Lexa wishes that this moment would never end. Wishes she could have Clarke hold her in this position forever, letting her take whatever she needs, screaming out Lexa’s name. 

Nonetheless, Lexa feels damn satisfied knowing she made Clarke come twice. And, by god was it incredible. 

She can’t speak for Clarke, but Lexa can confidently say for herself that she got something out of her system tonight.

As Clarke’s movements begin to slow, Lexa helps her ride out her high by pumping her fingers slowly, flattening her tongue against Clarke’s clit and giving slow, generous licks to help bring her down, holding her quivering thighs open as Clarke attempts to close them around Lexa’s head in reflex. 

Lexa continues her movements until Clarke’s hand relaxes in her hair, now gently willing her away with light tugs rather than holding her close. Lexa gets the message and gives Clarke’s cunt one last dirty kiss, savouring her taste and her scent and relishing in the rich moan Clarke lets out, before standing up. Her knees are killing her, as well as her jaw and her wrists from the pressure of the position, but god, was it worth it. 

Coming eye to eye with Clarke for the first time since before dropping to her knees, Lexa can’t help but let a smug smirk crawl onto her lips. 

Clarke is ruined. She’s panting, her lips parted with cheeks deeply flushed. Her neck is covered in Lexa’s markings, angry purple bruises littering the skin from her breasts to the top of her neck. 

Jesus. 

“Did that make you feel better?” Lexa breathes out in an attempt to quell the silence that fills the room, bar Clarke’s heavy breathing. 

“Mm, a little,” Clarke husks, stubborn as ever in spite of the way Lexa just ruined her. “You’re a good fuck, Woods. I’ll give you that.”

How kind. Lexa just chuckles lowly in response. “Least I could do.”

“Care to let me return the favour?” Clarke purrs, allusion and expectation laced through her voice as she reaches up, fingers toying with the collar of Lexa’s shirt. 

And it’s tempting. It is. Especially in this moment, with Lexa’s mind hazy with arousal and her rationality clouded by a primal need for release. But this was never about her, Lexa mentally chastises herself. This was about Clarke. It still is.

“It’s late,” Lexa states simply. “I should go.”

Another few beats of silence. 

“Okay.”

Lexa nods at Clarke’s blunt response, green eyes searching glassy blue for a moment, looking for a hint of anything— anything at all. Nothing. 

Silence once again hangs between them as their gazes meet. 

“Okay,” Lexa copies, running her hand through her hair. The energy in the room has changed, and suddenly Lexa feels suffocated, glued to her spot. 

“Thanks for...” Clarke trails off, hands gesturing idly into mid air as she hops off the counter. “I needed it.”

_Me too_ , Lexa thinks, much to her shame. Too proud to ever give Clarke the upper hand, she simply nods in response as she gives the blonde another once over. They’re close, now. Lexa had stepped back a couple of inches, creating space between her and Clarke, but Clarke had shortened the distance between them once again when she’d hopped off the counter. 

Clarke’s mouth opens slightly, as if about to utter something more, but she purses her lips shut before any words can slip through them. Searching the blonde’s eyes again, Lexa finds something unreadable this time— something unfamiliar. 

(Lexa tells herself it’s nothing.)

Taking the silence as an end to their conversation, Lexa gives Clarke one final look, before she steps away, cringing briefly at the uncomfortable wetness soaking through her own underwear. She readjusts her clothes slightly, fixing her collar as she heads out of the kitchen.

Clarke doesn’t follow Lexa as she navigates her way through the apartment. Doesn’t say a word when Lexa pulls the door open, slipping out silently.

Free from the confines of Clarke’s apartment, Lexa leans against the wall of the hallway, letting out a breath that feels as though it has been trapped inside her lungs since the moment she stepped inside the four walls. 

Regret begins to make her skin crawl, and she doesn’t know why. What happened tonight with Clarke was no more than what would happen with any one night stand. But guilt still swallows her whole as flashes of the last hour fill her mind, intrusive and loud. 

Lexa quells the storm inside of herself with the knowledge that what happened tonight will never happen again. 

It was nothing. Just an outlet. Just a momentary lapse. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got an interesting comment on the last chapter so i just want to clarify something. lexa turning down clarke's offer of “returning the favour” is an arc of the story and an important part of lexa’s character which will be further developed— things will obviously evolve, but atm it’s key to the story and to how their relationship will develop and change. lexa is just a little troubled, and consent is key, so clarke’s not pushing any boundaries, if that makes sense. we’ll get there eventually, but if you don’t like it, don’t read it. that’s all i wanted to say! enjoy the chapter <3

i.

Lexa loves Anya and she really hates short notices. So, naturally, she feels an urge to bash her head in and light herself on fire when she gets a text from Anya at half past eight on Friday morning, demanding that Lexa meets her at the coffee shop down the street at 9, and that, quote on quote, “I don’t care if you need to be at work. You’re getting your ass here at 9.” 

Truthfully, Lexa wasn’t planning on going into work either way. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t gone into work (or the studio) all week, not since Monday. Not since... Clarke.

Lexa shudders at the thought. At the name.

It’s not that she’s embarrassed or ashamed. She’s not. Despite the vaguely lingering sense of regret, it’d be a lie for Lexa to say she’s genuinely upset or in denial about what happened on Monday night.

(It’d also be a lie to say she hasn’t fucked herself to dull, angry orgasms every night since.)

She isn’t in high school anymore, after all. She knows casual sex, and sex in general, isn’t something to be ashamed of. She’s the last person who’d need to be reminded of that.

Lexa’s avoidance tactics are simply a matter of self preservation. She doesn’t have the strength to withstand Clarke’s taunting — her knowing glances, her passive aggressive remarks, any of it. All of it. Lexa just does not have it in her to deal with Clarke this week, period. Not after Monday night.

Hence, Lexa’s been doing most of her work from home these last 3 days. If catching up on week old emails and hours of missed sleep can constitute as work, that is. And it’s been nice. The last few weeks have been hectic, to say the least, and Lexa has been relishing in the tranquility of her apartment, the sweetness of getting to be alone and working at her own pace.

Of course, though, all good things must come to an end.

So now she’s throwing on a creased band shirt and pulling on a pair of faded jeans, slipping into a pair of old converse that have mud stains sprinkled over the sides and heels. She doesn’t really care, though, because she’s not in the mood to put effort into her appearance only to go to a shitty coffee shop and be scolded about something no doubt, whatever that may be, by her best friend.

Just as Lexa predicted, that’s basically word for word what happens the moment she sits herself across from Anya in the corner of the small, packed coffee shop.

“I’d convinced myself you’d died, with the way you haven’t responded to a single one of my texts this week,” Anya chuckles slightly, and then gives Lexa a once over, raising her eyebrows in judgement. “By the looks of it, I wasn’t exactly wrong.” 

“Thanks,” Lexa says flatly. If she didn’t know better, she’d argue back against Anya’s abuse.

“So? Where have you been?” Anya asks, expectantly. “Haven’t seen you in a couple weeks. You vanished on me.” And it’s true. The last time Lexa saw Anya was the night of Clarke’s gig, a couple weeks back. Since then, she’s been too preoccupied (with work, among other things that won’t be named) to make an effort to keep in touch with her best friend.

“Work. That’s it.”

Anya hums. “How’s the new job going?”

“Fine.”

“You’re tense. Are you having sex?” Anya asks, genuine concern laced through her tone.

Lexa can only let out a sharp, incredulous laugh at Anya’s words, at the crude but unsurprising audacity of her friend.

“What? I’m asking. Just because you’re separating your work life from your sex life doesn’t mean you should be depriving yourself of sex entirely,” Anya continues, and Lexa cringes inwardly.

And of course, because nothing ever goes unnoticed by Anya, she frowns, immediately catching on to Lexa’s discomfort. And then it dawns on her, somehow. “You’re screwing somebody from your job.” Lexa gapes. “Says who?”

“Don’t even try to deny it, Lexa. You know I can smell your bullshit from a mile away,” Anya smirks, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m disappointed, but not surprised. You never were able to keep a commitment to a cause.” 

Lexa scoffs, disbelieving. Anya’s... well, she’s not completely off the mark, but she’s reading a little too far into things. “I’m not actually—“

“Is it Clarke?” Anya interrupts. “Are you screwing Clarke Griffin?”

It takes everything Lexa has to stop herself from choking on her sip of coffee. She sets the cup down, raising her eyebrows and giving Anya a pointed look. “When have I ever been into blondes?” 

Humming, Anya nods in agreement, visibly backing down. “True.”

“Why are you so invested, anyways?” Lexa asks, though she already knows the answer. She already regrets asking as the energy between her and Anya changes, morphing into something serious.

“Costia.” The way the name slips out of Anya’s lips is blunt and final.

After a few beats of agonising silence, Lexa sneers, bitter and cold. “Right, because every time I fool around with an industry woman is going to end the same way as that did.” She knows she’s being harsh, but her guard always stands to full attention at the mention of Costia.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, Lex, so I won’t drag it out. But it’s much easier to nurse a broken heart when you don’t have to go to work with the person to blame for it every day. When you don’t have to leave your job because you can’t deal with seeing their face every day,” Anya sighs. “I care about you. I just don’t want you to allow feelings to sabotage your work life the way they have in the past.” 

“Out of all the women I’ve slept with from work, I caught feelings for one. It’s hardly a reoccurring issue,” Lexa throws back sharply, looking Anya square in the eye. “Yeah, Costia broke my heart, and that was unfortunate. But somehow, I don’t see how fucking a bimbo from work one time is going to put me in that same position. Get off my back, Anya.” And with that, Lexa stands up, shooting Anya one last malicious glare before turning away, leaving the coffee shop with intent.

When Lexa gets home, she settles on coping with the ache of an old wound being reopened in the way any mature adult would: sleeping.

She doesn’t bother changing into something more comfortable before she collapses onto her bed, throwing herself face-first into her pillow, willing her mind to stop racing with painful thoughts, willing herself to just fall asleep.

Just as she begins to succumb to the hands of sleep, her ringtone offensively breaks through the silence of the room, alarmingly loud.

Lexa groans, only shoving her face further into the pillow below her. She doesn’t know who’s ringing her, and she doesn’t care. It could be Anya, or somebody from work, or her dead mother. It doesn’t matter. She’s not picking it up.

The ringing eventually stops, and Lexa lets out a sigh of relief, basking in the silence that follows. Her moment of tranquility is predictably interrupted by a text tone, dinging not once, but twice, forcing Lexa to roll over to grab her phone off her bedside table, reluctantly at that.

Lexa squints at her screen. The texts are from Clarke. Of course.

_Going to be in the studio at 7 tonight_

_I’d like it if you came_

Lexa purses her lips. This is the first time she’s had any contact with Clarke since Monday night. She can’t help the small smile that creeps onto her lips at the knowledge that Clarke was the first one to break.

She quickly comes back to her senses, though, at the realisation that she should probably respond.

Fingers hover over her keyboard as Lexa ruminates on what she’s going to say. Deciding to cling to the small slither of sanity she has left tonight, she declines with 2 simple words.

_Not tonight._

She watches the text bubble pop up, curious as Clarke begins to type again. Another text comes through.

_You can’t avoid me forever_

Clarke’s pushing it, trying to play at something, and Lexa is not in the mood. Fed up and defeated, Lexa sighs, sending through two more texts.

_Not everything is about you._

_Thanks for the invite._

ii.

The thing is, they don’t talk about it.

Days pass by, and suddenly it’s been 2 weeks since Lexa had her head buried between Clarke’s legs, completely at the mercy of the blonde, all angst and loathing forgotten, pushed to the side by want and hunger.

And Lexa thought she’d be over it by now. She naively thought she truly had gotten it out of her system, and that she and Clarke could go back to hating each other’s guts, only conversing to make petty comments and catty remarks. But, hell, was she wrong.

Lexa had reluctantly given up on mission Avoid Clarke Griffin, with the knowledge that the blonde was right: she couldn’t keep it up forever.

So she’d forced herself back into her daily rhythm of unpredictable schedules; sporadic studio sessions and short notice meetings and hours speaking on the phone. She accepted her fate; she’d have to spend time with Clarke, and they’d both have to accept it.

Easier said than done, on Lexa’s part. Of course, though, nothing had appeared to change for Clarke. She was cutting and honest and coquettish as usual, changing her behaviours and her attitude for absolutely no one and nothing.

So Lexa simply can’t be blamed on the quiet Friday night that Clarke texts her with a simple pin drop and Lexa immediately knows what she’s asking for. She can’t be blamed for the speed at which she races to Clarke’s apartment without a second thought.

The sex is even better the second time, and Lexa just doesn’t get it.

Within less than an hour, Lexa’s fucked Clarke to 3 almost brutal orgasms, leaving the blonde entirely spent, splayed across her leather sofa like the subject of a Renaissance painting.

“Fucking hell,” Clarke pants out, eyes glazed over as she grins up at the ceiling. “Jesus.”

“Just Lexa is fine,” Lexa smirks from the other end of the couch as she reaches over to the box of tissues on the coffee table, wiping Clarke’s slick off her own chin.

Laughing softly, Clarke lifts her head just slightly to give Lexa a look, and Lexa knows what’s coming. “Is Lexa going to let me repay her tonight?”

Lexa hums at Clarke’s query, pulling a thoughtful face as if she’s actually considering it.

(Maybe she is.)

Nonetheless, she doesn’t give in. “She’s a little tied up with having to get home in time to have her 8 hours of beauty sleep. Maybe another night,” Lexa jokes softly, not realising the weight of the last 3 words until it’s too late.

And of course Clarke catches on. Lexa watches as she raises her eyebrows, something indistinct crossing over her features. “Will there be another night?” Clarke probes, suggestion and hope riddled through her tone.

Fuck. Clarke really is shameless, and Lexa wishes she hated it.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Lexa utters, a sudden sense of defensiveness rolling over her as she gets up off the couch, wandering aimlessly around Clarke’s living room in search of someplace to discard the balled up tissue that’s still tightly clenched in her palm. She needs to leave, now.

“Trash is in the kitchen, first cupboard on the left,” she hears Clarke murmur. “You don’t have to hang around.”

Lexa only nods, something bitter and icky rising in her throat as she throws away the tissue before making her own way toward the door.

She opens the door to let herself out and doesn’t let herself be thrown off by the small “Goodnight, Lexa,” that comes from behind her.

ii.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if Clarke had held her breath, per se. Because there was another night. And another. And another.

A few unspoken rules are gradually established between the two. They only have sex on Clarke’s request, and only ever at her apartment. They don’t ever fuck in Clarke’s bed. Lexa only ever makes Clarke come, and Clarke stops asking to return the favour. Lexa never stays the night. They don’t talk about it, ever. Most importantly, they only like each other when Lexa’s buried between Clarke’s legs.

For the most part, both women follow those rules down to the letter.

That is, until one particular Wednesday night in the studio.

It’s just Lexa and Clarke. At first, the studio had been littered with a few different producers and co-writers, all contributing their two cents to the recording process of one of Clarke’s new songs. They’d each filed in and out of the studio over the span of a few hours, and by the end of the night, the studio’s completely empty, aside from Clarke and Lexa.

It’s tense, but not uncomfortable. Which came as a surprise to Lexa, considering this was the first time they’d been alone together outside of Clarke’s apartment ever since the start of their little... endeavour.

Although the silence isn’t uncomfortable, Lexa still feels an urge to break it. She’s sure Clarke’ll mentally thank her for it. “How are you feeling so far? About the record?” It’s a genuine question, and not a loaded one, either.

Clarke just hums, shrugging softly. “I’m feeling fine,” but Lexa knows there’s more to come from the way Clarke words it.

So, she probes. Pushes. “But...?”

Lexa watches Clarke’s expressions closely. She doesn’t miss the hesitance that crosses the blonde’s features, the way her poise falters.

Sighing, Lexa leans forward in her chair. “You can talk to me, Clarke. I’m here to help. With anything... work related.” She adds in the last sentence warily, so as to not cross any boundaries.

Clarke smiles softly, nodding her head just slightly. “You’re right,” she concurs. “It’s— I just get tired of feeling like I have so little freedom in my artistry. Like, it sounds stupid and edgy, I know—“

“It’s not stupid,” Lexa frowns. “Edgy, yeah, but not stupid.”

“Thanks,” Clarke chuckles, but it’s short and clipped, alluding to the feel of her next words. “It’s just, I wish that it didn’t feel like everyone else was constantly making decisions for me, you know? What’s the point of anything I do or create if it’s just going to be moulded and reworked by the hands of like, 10 other people who barely even know me?” 

Lexa just nods as Clarke speaks, not wanting to prod any further than is comfortable, but still urging her to continue, wordlessly.

“My dad died,” Clarke continues, dropping the bomb like it’s nothing. Lexa must make her startled state clear, because Clarke hurries out her next words. “Not recently. A couple of years ago now. Nearly three. It’s just, as an example— my last record. I wanted to dedicate it to my dad, to make something for him, to honour him after he died. Because I’d lost the most important person in my life, and I was grieving. And... management shat on the whole idea, basically.” 

Clarke laughs slightly, as if to take the edge off, to minimise the gravity of what she just shared. When Lexa doesn’t speak, the blonde fills the silence with a redundant apology. “Sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”

Shaking her head, Lexa speaks up, reassuring. “No— no. Don’t apologise. It’s... it’s good to talk about these things, sometimes.”

The sudden change in dynamic between her and Clarke is weird, of course. But it feels right, somehow. Like it makes sense. That thought alone makes Lexa uneasy.

“Right,” Clarke agrees softly. “So. Now you’ve seen me naked and you know about my dead father, don’t you think it’s only fair you tell me where you’re from? You know, eye for an eye.” It’s teasing, lighthearted, but Lexa can tell it’s a prompt.

Lexa smiles, averting her gaze away from the blonde. “Born in San Fran,” she states. She takes a deep breath, and rushes out her next words, rash and tangled. “My mom died, when I was a kid. I mean, it’s not the same, because I was so young. I barely knew her. But... I know what it’s like. The ache of a missing parent.”  
  
Her stomach twists as the words fall out, raw and tender. She cringes at the vulnerability, at the plain honesty of this moment, regret washing over her in insurmountable waves, overwhelming and terrifying.

She fights against the urge to meet Clarke’s eyes, afraid of what she’ll find there.

Unfortunately, it’s not up to Lexa.

Because suddenly Clarke’s standing up, hovering in front of her, her hand caressing the side of Lexa’s face, gentle and reassuring as their eyes meet. And then she’s leaning down, and Lexa’s leaning up, and their noses are brushing and then their lips are touching. And it’s... it’s tender, intimate. But not in their usual sexual, purposeful sense. They aren’t kissing the same primal, intentional way they do late at night in the privacy of Clarke’s apartment. The tender way Clarke’s hand cups Lexa’s cheek and the natural way she manoeuvres into the kiss, into Lexa’s lips, is something new, something unfamiliar. Something scary.

At the realisation, Lexa draws back, quick and drastic. She lowers her head into her palms, exasperated and confused. So confused.

“Lexa?” She hears, but it’s drowned out, distant, as if she’s 10 feet underwater and Clarke’s calling out to her from above.

Lexa can only shake her head, running her hands over her face. “We need to stop.”

And there it is, again. The agonising, vacant silence. Leaving too much room for consideration and contemplation.

“Okay,” Clarke states, finally. “Yeah. Okay.”

Lexa forces herself to pay no mind to the hint of disappointment that lingers between Clarke’s words. She forces herself to get up, forces herself to keep her eyes averted from the blonde. She drags herself out of the studio, out of the suffocating grip of vulnerability and openness.

The whole “stopping” enterprise is a lot more taxing than Lexa had thought it’d be.

Of course, at first, Lexa had felt a sense of relief. It was what she had wanted, after all. For her first few days of Clarke-celibacy, her yearning to touch and taste and hold the blonde was sidelined by the solace she found in knowing that eventually, she’d get over it, and it’d be like nothing ever happened. And no feelings would need to be addressed.

Alas, inner peace can only last so long.

It seems like Clarke’s everywhere, ever since they stopped having sex. Like, the universe is making up for the hours of Clarke’s presence that Lexa’s missing now that she’s not at Clarke’s apartment every other night.

Thankfully, Clarke is fairly civil when her and Lexa do happen to cross paths. Lexa wouldn’t go as far as calling it friendly, but Clarke definitely isn’t being vicious or cruel.

Not intentionally or overtly, at least.

The thing is, it really doesn’t matter that Clarke’s not _trying_ to be vicious or cruel. She still _is_ , just by existing.

Now that Lexa has never needed anything more than to hate Clarke, every single thing she does makes her more likeable, less hatable.

When Lexa says Clarke’s everywhere, she literally means everywhere. Lexa began avoiding most studio sessions and swerving spending any more time in the office than is needed, in hopes that it’d cut down the amount of times she’d see Clarke. But it made no difference. She catches glimpses of Clarke crossing the street from inside coffee shops near Polis. Clarke's almost always there to push the button to the fourth floor before her own floor in the elevator on the rare occasions that Lexa does go into the office. She’s at almost every function Lexa goes to, immersed and lively and frustratingly beautiful.

That’s the worst part. The more she sees Clarke, the more Lexa aches for her. The more she sees Clarke, the more notice she takes of her features; the soft smile lines around her mouth, the way the skin between her eyebrows indents into small wrinkles when she’s jotting down a verse or displeased with the sound of a chord as she plucks at the strings of her guitar. She’s no less brash or blunt than usual, but somehow, she appears softer to Lexa now, more tender.

So, yeah. Clarke’s everywhere, and it’s not fair. Because she’s everywhere and she’s beautiful and Lexa’s sure Clarke doesn’t even notice her now that sex isn’t on the table anymore. She knows Clarke never owed her anything, but it still aches. Dull and consuming and constant.

iii.

Lexa has settled on the fact that Anya was right about one thing: just because she wasn’t going to be fooling around with women from work anymore doesn’t mean she has to be depriving herself entirely. There are plenty of other fish in the sea, after all.

Of course, no one seems half as appealing as Clarke, but that doesn’t matter. It’s been weeks since Lexa’s had an orgasm at the hands of someone other than herself, and her and Clarke’s little 2 week one-sided stint only left her feeling sexually frustrated (and maybe a little smug).

Hence, tonight, Lexa’s in her bed, the body of a woman who isn’t Clarke wrapped around her, humming contentedly as they both come down from their highs. And it’s... nice. This woman- Josephine, a blonde from the bar down the street- is staying a little longer than Lexa would usually consider comfortable or safe, but somehow, Lexa doesn’t mind tonight. It’s cold, and she could use the extra warmth of another body.

She’s letting herself slowly drift to the sound of Josephine’s voice and the feeling of gentle fingers softly tracing the small of her back, when her phone rings from the pocket of her discarded jeans, somewhere beside her bed. And Lexa’s not going to answer it. She’s not.

“You got another booty call to tend to?” Josephine jokes from beside her, giggling softly as the ringing drags on.

Lexa flips over onto her other side, coming face to face with the woman, humming softly. “Mm. I think I’m satisfied enough with just this one for tonight,” Lexa smirks, her fingers reaching to tuck Josephine’s hair behind her ears as the ringing finally stops.

The blonde sighs happily at the silence, eyes flitting closed again as she relishes in Lexa’s soft touches.

Naturally, though, because the universe hates Lexa, her phone begins to ring again, and she swears it’s louder this time around, more obnoxious somehow.

Lexa sighs, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration. “I’m sorry,” she groans, apologetic as she drags her body to the edge of her bed, reaching onto the floor blindly, searching for her pants.

By the time she’s found them and reluctantly retrieved her phone from the back pocket, the ringing has stopped. She squints at the screen as it lights up, barely able to make out the two Missed call from Clarke Griffin notifications. She swallows, a cross between frustration and worry filling her to the brim as her mind floods with reasons why Clarke would ever be calling her this late at night.

Knowing Clarke, she’s probably just drunk. At first, the thought quells Lexa’s concern, but then worries of Clarke being out alone at night, drunk, stupid, begin to outweigh her urge to shrug it off.

“Tell them to fuck off,” she hears Josephine sigh from beside her. “You’re all mine tonight.” Fingers begin to trail Lexa’s back once again, a hand wrapped around her waist in an attempt to pull her back, and it should be comforting, enticing, the way it was 5 minutes ago, but it’s not.

Lexa shakes her head, lifting herself out of her bed, hasty and urgent. “I better take this. I’ll be back in a minute, I promise,” she reassures, a promise she’s not sure she can keep as she slips back into her clothes.

Lexa wishes she could say her her heart isn’t racing as she dials Clarke’s number, that she isn’t tapping her foot anxiously, pleading silently for her to pick up.

She doesn’t let out a sigh of relief when Clarke finally picks up. Doesn’t let her worry bleed through her words as she lets out a short “What is it?” into the phone through gritted teeth.

“I... can I come to your place?” Clarke hurries out, almost too fast and rash for Lexa to decipher.

Lexa frowns at Clarke’s brisk tone, the way she rushes the words out so urgently, almost pleading. “It’s really late, Clarke. What’s—“

“I know. Shit, I know. I’m sorry. Just... please. Please,” Clarke continues, her voice cracking on the last word.

Lexa’s confusion is sidelined by her concern, worrying her lip between her teeth before she breathes out her next words. “Okay. Just... stay on the phone. I’ll come and pick you up.”

“No. No. You don’t need to. You— you live downtown, right? I’m near. I’ll just walk. I just need the address,” Clarke urges, babbling now, her tone only growing more desperate. Lexa can tell Clarke’s trying to quell her concern, but it’s not working.

“Clarke, it’s raining and it’s dark. I can come pick you up.”

“You don’t need to. Just text me the address. Please.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Lexa runs her hand through her hair as she types her address through to Clarke, her skin crawling with worry as she hits send.

Her heart’s beating through her chest so hard she swears she’d probably be able to see it if she looked in the mirror. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes, willing herself to calm down as her bedroom door creaks open.

“I’m assuming that wasn’t a booty call?” Josephine murmurs, concern riddling her gaze as she peaks her head around the door.

Lena manages a small laugh at the irony of that statement before she speaks up. “No. It was my— my friend. She’s... she needs somewhere to stay, so...”

“So, I should go,” Josephine finishes, simple and blunt.

Lexa can only manage an apologetic nod in response, pursing her lips together.

“It’s okay. I get it. Friends, huh?” Josephine sighs sympathetically, like she understands. Like she has any idea. And Lexa appreciates the effort, she does.

But as much as she appreciates it, she really needs Josephine to leave, now, before things get any more complicated.

“Yeah,” Lexa breathes, and the blonde gives her one last unreadable look before she disappears back into the bedroom.

Lexa’s pacing back and forth outside her bedroom when a knock comes at the door of her apartment, followed by a voice calling out her name. A voice that’s definitely Clarke’s. She doesn’t think twice or give herself time to worry about the fact that Josephine’s still in her bedroom before she rushes to the door, urgent and desperate.

Relief mixed with some kind of sadness crashes over her as she opens the door to see a sopping wet, teary-eyed Clarke Griffin standing in the hall. Lexa doesn’t question her or even greet her before ushering her inside, trying to make sense of her inaudible babbles, something to do with _Finn_ and _so angry_ and _I didn’t know where to go_ and _I’m sorry._

The combination of rain, tears and snot has caused Clarke’s whole face of makeup to run dramatically, mascara dripping down her cheeks and her lipstick uneven. If this was any other situation, Lexa would laugh at how Tim-Burton-esque the blonde looks, probably make a cruel joke about it. But this isn’t any other situation, is it?

Lexa’s head is spinning as she hushes Clarke softly, her hand subconsciously reaching out for Clarke’s shoulder, caressing softly in an attempt to settle her. “Hey, hey,” she soothes quietly between shushes. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Clarke’s mid-way through another sniffly, incoherent tangent, paying no mind to Lexa’s words when a voice comes from behind them. Lexa’s brought back to her senses, suddenly hyperaware of Josephine’s presence.

Josephine appears unbothered by the sight in front of her, only placing a chaste kiss to Lexa’s cheek and murmuring a soft “call me”, before she slips silently out of Lexa’s apartment.

And then, Clarke’s full on sobbing, snotty and raw with a few words in between, and Lexa doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what this is. She doesn’t know what’s going on— doesn’t know if Clarke’s drunk, or if she’s just gotten into a car accident, or been attacked, or if she’s just losing it, or what. She’s never seen Clarke like this, whatever this is, and she doesn’t know what to do.

She can only swallow, continuing to hush Clarke again, softly, uselessly. “You’re soaking, Clarke. Let’s just get you dry, okay?” Clarke nods, just barely, breath hitching as she wipes her hand over her face fruitlessly. “Stay here. I’m just going to get a towel and some dry clothes. I’ll be back in just a second. Don’t go anywhere.”

Lexa rushes to her bedroom and comes back with a towel and an armful of comfy clothes.

“I’m— I’m gonna dry your hair now, okay?” Lexa asks, and it’s tender, cautious. She watches for Clarke’s nod before she unfolds the towel and puts it to Clarke’s head, gentle as she runs it over her hair, scrunching carefully, just enough to ring out the drops of water.

She tries not to take note of the way Clarke’s breathing slows down, the way she just slightly leans into the touch of Lexa’s hands against her head, the way her sobs slowly fade into quiet sniffles. She tries to pretend her heart doesn’t clench at all of those things. Now’s not the time.

Pulling back after a few more moments, when Clarke’s hair is as dry as it’ll get with a towel, Lexa clears her throat softly. “Okay. I got you these clothes to wear,” she murmurs, offering up a pair of her sweatpants and a thick hoodie, as well as a pair of fluffy socks that could probably double as leg warmers if need be. “They’re nothing special, but they’ll do for now. You can, um, get changed in my room. It’s just there.” She nods to her bedroom door, smiling softly as Clarke takes the pile of clothes.

Clarke’s own lips upturn into a smile so faint it’s barely noticeable, but Lexa will take it.

When Clarke disappears into the bedroom, Lexa lets out a long awaited sigh, and she doesn’t know if it’s a sigh of relief, or overwhelm, or exhaustion. It doesn’t matter.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing or why she’s doing it. She wants to offer Clarke her bed for the night, because she’s sure as hell not letting her go back out in this state, but she winces slightly at the prospect of making Clarke uncomfortable (and the prospect of being turned down). She’s not sure whether she should ask Clarke what happened, or whether she should just leave it. What are they supposed to talk about while Clarke’s here if they aren’t having sex? Their dead parents?

And she can’t help but let her mind wander to the question of why Clarke decided to call her tonight, of all people.

Her thoughts are cut short by the sound of a door clicking open, Clarke shuffling out of Lexa’s bedroom awkwardly, in a pair of sweatpants that are too long on her and a hoodie that’s just slightly too big.

“I know this was supposed to make me feel better, but I look fucking ridiculous,” Clarke all but sniffles as she makes eye contact with Lexa. She’s evidently calmed down a little, her tears and smeared makeup now wiped away, but her distressed state is still clear.

Lexa laughs softly, giving Clarke a pointed look. “Better than being soaking wet.”

“I beg to differ,” Clarke quips back, because of course she would still make innuendos like that, even in the tragic state she’s in, even with her voice tainted by the croak that comes from raw sobs. “Um, I really need a smoke. Is it okay if I...” she gestures toward the opposite end of Lexa’s apartment, where her balcony sits, holding up a pack of cigs.

Nodding softly, Lexa affirms her. “Go ahead.”

Lexa stands awkwardly in her spot as Clarke pads softly across her apartment, onto the balcony. Watches closely as the blonde places the cigarette into her mouth, lifting her lighter to the tip. Thinks briefly about how her clothes are going to smell of smoke. Thinks longer about how her clothes are going to smell of Clarke.

When Clarke comes back inside, she’s visibly less tense. Lexa almost a breathes out a sigh of relief at the near casual tone to Clarke’s next words of, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” There’s still a sadness behind them, but they’re more... Clarke. She never thought she’d be thankful to hear any of Clarke’s cocky remarks, but here she is.

And then, there it is again— the silence. Deafening.

Coughing slightly, Lexa is the first to break. “Do you... do you want to talk about it?”

“Why are you doing this?” Clarke demands, never one to beat around the bush.

Lexa’s next question is futile, because she knows the answer, but she asks anyway. “Doing what?”

“Doing... this. Being nice. Letting me into your apartment. Kicking out a beautiful girl so I can come terrorise you with my baggage. Giving me warm clothes. Letting me smoke on your balcony. Actually talking to me.”

And Lexa’s stumped, at a loss for words, because she doesn’t know the answer to that question. Maybe in the back of her mind, in the deepest depths of her psyche, she does. But she doesn’t know what the right answer is. What Clarke wants to hear.

“That doesn’t matter, Clarke. You scared me, is all.” She falters before what she utters next. “Why are _you_ doing this?”

“You know why,” Clarke murmurs, and it comes out small, timid.

And Lexa doesn’t know. She’s not sure she wants to.

Shaking her head, Lexa sighs, defeated and overcome with exhaustion. “You need to sleep, Clarke. You can take my bed for the night.” And for once, Clarke doesn’t protest.

While Clarke slips out onto the balcony to have her final smoke of the night, Lexa throws a new sheet and duvet set onto her bed, because she respects Clarke enough to not force her to sleep on sheets that probably have fresh traces of another woman’s come on them.

She gets changed into her own pair of sweats and a white tank top, and while she’s ridding of her dirty laundry and bedding into a basket, Clarke appears behind her, hovering aimlessly outside her bedroom door.

Lexa turns to her, smiling gently and gesturing to the bed. “Here,” she utters, rubbing her hand along her neck awkwardly as Clarke pads toward the bed, sitting herself down on the edge. “Um— the bathroom’s just there, if you need it. I’m gonna sleep on the couch, so if you need me...”

“You can sleep in the bed, Lex,” Clarke murmurs, and Lexa doesn’t miss the fact that it sounds like a question, rather than a statement.

Lexa swallows. “Are you just telling me that, or is that a request?”

“I’m just saying, the offer’s there. It’s cold and it’s _your_ bed and...” Clarke trails off, her eyes flitting away from Lexa’s timidly. “...and I don’t really want to be alone, so.” Lexa sighs, and Clarke must notice, because her next words come out in a haste. “You don’t have to. I understand if you aren’t comfortable.”

And it’s... it’s not that Lexa doesn’t want to. It’s not that she isn’t pining at the idea of sharing a bed with Clarke, holding her and keeping her warm, in a way that’s chaste but simultaneously intimate. That’s the thing. It’s intimate. In a different way than what Lexa’s used to, especially with Clarke.

But Clarke’s offering, and Lexa’s never been very good at denying her anything.

“Okay,” Lexa breathes, trying desperately to mask the fondness that bubbles inside of her chest, but failing miserably.

And then Clarke’s smiling in a way Lexa’s never seen her smile, wide and genuine but sheepish still as she lifts the duvet, letting out the most contented sigh Lexa’s ever heard as she settles into the mattress, patting gently at the empty spot next to her.

When Lexa climbs in next to Clarke, laying her head down against the pillow, it’s terrifying how at home she feels. It scares her how comfortable, how safe it feels to be lying here next to Clarke in her bed, like nothing else matters except them.

“It was Finn,” Clarke whispers, out of the blue. At Lexa’s curious hum, she continues. “I was at his place, tonight. I don’t know why. I just— I felt like seeing him. I was lonely, and he’s always there.” She pauses, slowly moving onto her side, turning her back to Lexa before she continues. “And we had sex, because that’s what we do. And then after, I just— I didn’t want to stay. So I got up to leave, told him I was going home. And he— he started going off at me, saying all these things—“ her voice cracks, like she’s about to start crying again. But she continues. “All these things about how I ruin everyone I touch, how I’m never going to find a happy relationship, how awful I am. And, god, it just hurt. So bad. And so I just left, and I called you, because I didn’t know who else to call and I had no where to go, and—“

Lexa exhales. She doesn’t falter or question before wrapping an arm around the blonde’s waist to her front, testing the waters before Clarke folds into her touch, and then she’s pulling her closer, until her body is flush to Clarke’s.

The gentle embrace doubles as a silent _it’s okay_ , and Lexa hopes Clarke notices.

And it just feels right. It’s chaste, entirely innocent as she holds Clarke— all tension and bitterness between them now forgotten, there bodies too close to make room for anything other than solace, comfort, ease.

(Lexa still tries to convince herself it means nothing. She’s comforting a friend in need, is all.)

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers, and Lexa’s heart aches. “I don’t— you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Lexa only hushes her softly, pulling her in closer.

They lay like that for a while, in the silent embrace. Lexa doesn’t know whether it’s 5 minutes, or 10, or 30, and she doesn’t care. She could stay like this forever and it still wouldn’t feel like they had long enough 

“You know, I didn’t take you for a big spoon,” Clarke teases, breaking the silence as she feels for Lexa’s hand on her stomach, placing her own hand on top, squeezing softly.

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

“Yeah, you are,” Clarke hums as she traces her fingers along Lexa’s knuckles lightly, just touching. Lexa’s not sure if there’s a double meaning to Clarke’s words. She decides not to look into it.

Instead she basks in the lingering touches, listening to Clarke’s soft breaths and nuzzling her nose into blonde hair, relishing in the soothed sigh Clarke lets out at the sensation.

“Is it weird that this isn’t weird?” Clarke murmurs, and it’s so quiet that if Lexa wasn’t listening so closely, senses tuned to Clarke’s every breath, she probably would’ve missed it.

“Shh,” Lexa hushes, just barely.

If it’s at all possible, Clarke relaxes further into Lexa’s touch, and Lexa welcomes the gesture. She allows herself to fall deeper into the embrace, too, allowing her body to mould into Clarke’s. Tries not to pay mind to the way their bodies fit together so perfectly.

Savouring the feeling, she just lets herself hold and be held, lets herself feel and be felt. It’s been so long.

It’s been too long.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Lexa find a delicate balance.

i.

When Clarke wakes, she’s faced with walls that are definitely not her own and sheets that definitely don’t smell like hers, in clothes that she definitely doesn’t own. It takes her a moment to recall last night, to realise she’s at Lexa’s- curly haired, beautiful Lexa’s- who took her in last night and gave her dry clothes and held her until she fell asleep.

She sighs at the feel of the empty spot next to her, at Lexa’s absence, but then a voice is cutting through the silence of the apartment. “If I were a booooy, even just for a daaay,” and Clarke can’t help the fond laugh that rolls from her lips as she turns her face into the soft pillow. She’s considering stealing the linen on it, she really is. 

She’s torn between wanting to lay in this bed forever, and wanting to see Lexa. In the end, the latter wins as she rolls out of Lexa’s bed, making it up quickly and stretching the sleep out of her muscles. She stumbles out of the bedroom, wiping the sleep out of her eyes before she finds Lexa, standing in the kitchen over a hot stove, spatula in hand. She’s in sweats that hang low on her hips and and a sports bra— it’s the most skin Clarke’s ever seen her show, so god forgive her for the few seconds she spends staring at the definition of her spine, the perfect curve of her small hips. 

To make things more painful for Clarke, Lexa has a tattoo. One that follows her spine, from the top of her neck to her waist. Clarke can’t entirely make out what it is, but it’s dark, some kind of string of symbols and circles that maybe resemble moons. 

It’s beautiful, and Clarke can’t stop staring. 

She blinks, looking away before her mind wanders too far. “Beyoncé?” She teases. 

Lexa jumps slightly, visibly startled by Clarke’s voice as she turns to face her, a small blush tingeing her cheeks. And Clarke can’t help the way her eyes flit down to Lexa’s toned stomach, because fuck, as if she could get any more attractive, she has abs. _Abs_. Clarke briefly entertains thoughts of running her hands over the muscles, feeling them twitch under her fingers, maybe grinding on— no. Not now. Mentally cursing herself for having perverted thoughts in such an innocent moment, she pulls her gaze back up to meet Lexa’s, laughing softly. “It’s okay. Everybody loves them some Beyoncé,” she winks. “Whatcha making?”

Lexa smiles, wandering over to the her kitchen counter to grab her sweatshirt. “Pancakes. My famous recipe,” she explains as she pulls the sweater over her head, much to Clarke’s disdain, before wandering back to the stove. “Always a good comfort food after a rough night.”

Clarke can only grin fondly, marvelling at Lexa, at how full of surprises she is. She stands like that, just watching Lexa for god knows how long, until Lexa’s sliding the last of the pancakes onto 2 plates, dousing them in maple syrup and topping them with some chopped strawberries. 

Grabbing both plates and turning back to Clarke, she nods toward her kitchen table. “Sit,” she utters. “Do you want something to drink? I have juice, coffee—“

“If you do anything else for me, Lexa, I’m literally going to explode. Just come eat with me,” she responds as she grabs one of the plates from Lexa’s hands, carrying it to the table. 

Clarke waits for Lexa to sit opposite her before she digs in, and she can’t help but moan as she takes her first bite. “Oh my god,” she groans. “Sorry. They’re really good. I never have breakfasts like this at home.”

Lexa laughs, genuinely, and it’s the most beautiful sound Clarke’s ever heard. “You can’t cook?”

“I’d be offended by that question, if you weren’t right,” Clarke admits between mouthfuls. “I can’t cook. But even if I could, management and my trainer religiously shove _health foods_ down my throat. Because, you know, gotta get in shape, apparently. So it’s sugar-free microwave oatmeal every morning for me either way.”

She notices Lexa frown at that. “That’s ridiculous. Microwave oatmeal is awful. You should eat what you want.” It looks like there’s something else she wants to say, but she finishes there, taking another bite from her pancakes instead. 

Clarke’s next words come out low and coy before she can stop them. “Easy for you to say, with abs like yours.”

Lexa only smirks, shaking her head in faux disbelief, but Clarke doesn’t miss the way her cheeks flush, the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip. 

“What? I have eyes. Just because we’re not fucking anymore doesn’t mean I can’t point out the fact that you have a nice body,” Clarke continues, basking in the way Lexa’s smirk grows at each word. 

“Thank you, Clarke,” she smiles, smitten, before her face morphs into something more serious. “But... you have a nice body, too. No one should be trying to change it, especially not by torturing you with shitty microwave oatmeal.”

And then Clarke’s the one turning red and biting into her lip, because... god. She’s used to hearing people say nice things about her body, of course. Hell, even Lexa’s had her fair share of showering Clarke in compliments about her body in the heat of their late night rendezvous. But this— this is different. Because this time, the words aren’t lewd or coarse, they aren’t whispered between laboured breaths and breathy moans. They just... are.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, bashful and reserved as she keeps her eyes on her food, away from Lexa’s gaze. 

They sit in comfortable silence while they finish off their breakfast, trading ambiguous looks and small smiles. It’s strange, to Clarke, how comfortable this all is. She briefly wonders if after she leaves, things between them will go back to the way they were— tense and complicated. Or if maybe, things could stay like this. Whatever _this_ is. 

As Clarke lays her knife and fork down on top her empty plate, she clears her throat, speaking up. “Thank you. For breakfast. And for, um, last night.”

Lexa nods as she stands, grabbing her plate and Clarke’s, bringing them to the kitchen counter. Something in her demeanour has changed suddenly, but Clarke can’t put a finger on what it is. What Lexa says next is enough of an indication. “You had a rough night, and you needed somewhere to stay. It’s nothing.”

Clarke doesn’t miss the double meaning behind the last two words. The motive behind them is clear, and she almost can’t swallow around the lump that forms in her throat. “Right.”

It comes as a shock to Clarke just how much it stings, the confirmation of how little any of this means to Lexa. It _shouldn’t_ sting this much, and Clarke knows it. 

(Her mind flashes with images of the woman who came from Lexa’s bedroom last night, and her stomach churns. She wonders, if she hadn’t called Lexa last night, if it would it be that woman sitting at this table this morning, eating breakfast, smiling, instead of Clarke. And if it would’ve made any difference to Lexa whatsoever.)

The silence between them is no longer comfortable. It’s stiff and unnatural, and Clarke hates it. She knows Lexa feels it, too, from the way her spine straightens, the way her jaw locks. Clarke knows what this is; her cue to leave. 

Clarke purses her lips together, standing up. “I’m gonna get dressed, and then I better head home.”

“Okay. I can drive you home, if—“

“I’ll catch a cab. You’ve done more than enough, Lexa. Seriously,” Clarke interrupts, smiling softly. 

She waits for Lexa’s gentle nod before heading back into the bedroom, slipping out of the borrowed sweats and into last night’s clothes. She winces at the dampness that’s still there from last night’s rain, the uncomfortable friction between the fabric and her skin.

Once she’s slipped into her shoes, she gathers up the sweats and places them neatly on top of Lexa’s bed, before wandering back out into the apartment. Lexa’s still in the kitchen, slotting the dirty dishes into her dishwasher, humming softly to herself. 

“Will I see you this week, or are you gonna go full Gone Girl on me again?” Clarke goads, because she can’t help herself. 

When Lexa turns to Clarke, her lips are upturned into a small smirk. “Haven’t decided yet,” she says simply, before she continues loading up the dishwasher. “Why? You miss me?”

“Of course not. Just like to keep a close eye on you,” Clarke quips, and Lexa lets out a short laugh in response. Holding back anything else she wants to say, Clarke manages a small smile. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you. Thank you, Lexa.”

“Yeah. See you, Clarke.” Lexa’s response is short and distracted, and Clarke tries not to let it get to her as she wanders toward the door, doesn’t dare to look back or utter another word as she lets herself out. 

ii.

The following Monday, Clarke’s on set of a shoot for the new record. She’s in the dressing room, Harper, her makeup artist, touching up some of the final details of today’s dark, dramatic look. 

“Good weekend?” Harper smirks at Clarke in one of the mirrors, an eyebrow raised. 

Frowning, Clarke’s thrown by the random nature of the question. “Hm?” 

“Your neck is, um...” Harper laughs as she hands Clarke a small compact mirror, prompting her to take a look. Clarke audibly groans at what she sees; her upper neck is littered with purple bruises, unmistakable and clear as day, letting the entire world in on her less than modest antics. The bruises seem to have only darkened since she last checked on them. 

“Yeah. That’s not pretty,” she sighs, tracing her fingertips along the blemishes. “I’m sorry. I’ve told him a million times, no marks above the collarbones. He doesn’t listen.”

Harper just sniggers, patting Clarke on the shoulder. “It’s all good. I can cover it up. That’s what I’m here for,” she smiles. “It’s good you’re having fun. Just... remind him again, next time.”

Clarke sighs, biting her lip. “I don’t think there will be a next time with him, so you might be lucky.”

“Finn?” Harper queries, giving Clarke a knowing look. When Clarke groans incredulously, Harper just shrugs, tilting her head to one side as she brings her focus back to concealing the blemishes on Clarke’s neck. “Sorry. People talk.”

And Clarke can’t argue with that. She nods, defeated as she holds her head still, allowing Harper to work away at concealing her regrets. 

“Stop me if I’m being too nosy, but I thought you two broke up last month,” Harper remarks curiously. 

Clarke snorts. “We never broke up, because we were never together in the first place.”

“Fair enough. But your— whatever it is, has been on and off for a while. But this time was really the last, huh?” 

Sighing, Clarke shrugs softly, because she can’t really answer that question the way she wants to. As much as she’d like to be able to give a solid _yes_ , she doesn’t know anymore. Not with how lonely things can get some nights. Not now that her and Lexa have stopped fooling around. “I don’t know, Harps. I think I’m just getting too old for any of this. Maybe it’s time I settle. Kids and a white picket fence and all.” 

Harper scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You’re 28, Clarke.”

“Yeah, exactly. Old,” Clarke huffs.

“Who are you and what have you done with Party Girl Griffin?” Harper grills teasingly as she dabs concealer over Clarke’s neck, finishing off. “Seriously, though. You’re bumming me out. How about we go out tonight? We can have some drinks, you can find a hot hookup...“

“It’s Monday, Harper.” 

“So? That never stopped you before,” Harper states pointedly as she sets down the brushes, wiping her hands across her jeans. “Alright, you’re all ready. I’m kicking you out. Just think about tonight, and let me know by 5. We can invite O and Rae. It’ll be fun.”

Clarke just shakes her head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her lips as she gets up. “You’re encouraging bad habits, McIntyre.”

But Clarke’s never been very good at laying off her bad habits, even on a Monday night. So when she finally gets home at 4pm after her day of shooting, she finds herself texting Harper to let her know she’s down for a night out. 

By six o’clock she’s crowded around a bar with Harper, Octavia and Raven, mug of beer in hand and a laugh in her throat. 

She’s listening to Raven entertain the the group with a story she’s heard at least three times already, when Raven’s interrupted by a hand wrapping around her waist. 

All eyes flick curiously from the hand around Raven’s waist to the face of the person behind, none of the group having been warned that anyone else was joining them tonight. For a brief moment, Clarke doesn’t recognise the person. 

But then she does. It’s Lexa’s friend— at least, that’s what Clarke assumed she was— from the night of the gig. Clarke never caught her name, and she might’ve been completely off her face that night, but it’s definitely her. Clarke remembers drunkenly teasing Raven about it, getting on her case after the woman had left. So it only comes as a slight surprise to Clarke when Raven tilts her head, giving the woman a soft kiss on the lips. And then Raven’s introducing Harper to the woman and Octavia’s greeting her and Clarke does too, and learns that her name is Anya. 

“I hope you guys don’t mind, I invited Lexa,” Anya explains as she settles herself onto one of the barstools. And, oh. Of course. Because apparently, the universe can’t go more than 3 days without forcing Clarke and Lexa into a room together. “Well, I _forced_ Lexa to come. She hasn’t gotten her ass up in 2 days. I threatened to storm her apartment if she didn’t come tonight. She should be here in a minute.”

A clipped laugh comes from behind her then, and Clarke immediately knows it’s Lexa. 

“Thanks, Ahn,” Lexa says wryly as she appears, putting an arm over Anya’s shoulder.

(Clarke’s heart aches at the graceful timbre of Lexa’s voice, even only uttering so few syllables.)

Raven claps her hands together excitedly, letting out a little squeal as she jumps to greet Lexa. “Sexy Lexie! Haven’t seen you at work in weeks! Where have you been?”

“Like I said, she’s been moping in her apartment like a loser,” Anya laughs, raising an eyebrow in Lexa’s direction. 

(Clarke doesn’t let her mind wander to the _why_. Doesn’t let herself even think for a moment that maybe Lexa’s been just as hung up on how they left off on Sunday morning as she has.)

And then Harper’s elbowing Clarke in her side, giving an encouraging nod. “So has Clarkey here! You two can bond over being losers together,” she coos dramatically, and Clarke cringes inwardly. 

Nonetheless, she could never pass up on the opportunity play along with the charade at Lexa’s expense. “Sounds fun. C’mere, Woods,” Clarke grins, patting the empty barstool next to her with one hand and holding up her mug of beer with the other. She keeps her gazed locked on Lexa for a moment in an attempt to exude composure and confidence, but she quickly falls into the trap of Lexa’s features; the soft swell of her lips, the sharp angle of her jaw, the elegant stretch of her neck... 

She reasons with herself when she realises she’s been staring too hard and for too long, flitting her gaze away from Lexa. From the corner of her eye, she can make out Lexa stepping toward her, ever sophisticated and uninhibited. 

“So,” Octavia asserts when Lexa sits herself down. “Enough of this cynical shit. How’s everyone doing?”

The group falls into comfortable small talk, the conversation jumping from work to industry gossip to romance. Or something along those lines. Clarke’s not entirely listening.

“What about you, Lexa?” Clarke hears Harper probe, and at the mention of Lexa’s name, Clarke’s suddenly listening, invested as ever. She’s sure the entire group notices the way her ears perk up. “You spoken for? Or do I still have a shot?”

(Clarke knows it’s a joke. She also knows that even if it wasn’t, it shouldn’t mean anything to her. But for some reason, it does. She knows Lexa isn’t _hers_ , in any way. But she’s had Lexa on her knees in front of her. She’s had Lexa’s lips on her lips, her tongue in her mouth and on and inside her most intimate of places. She’s had Lexa’s arms wrapped around her waist, her hands on her stomach. It feels _wrong_ that Lexa isn’t hers.)

Laughing softly, Lexa shakes her head, fiddling with the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s... complicated, at the moment.”

Clarke frowns at that, because _what_? Complicated? Since when?

“Complicated usually doesn’t mean committed,” Harper drawls. “So I do have a small chance, then?” And Clarke wants to slap her. (It’s cruel, she knows. But she can’t help it.)

“Course, babe,” Lexa winks, and Clarke’s sure Lexa’s pulling her leg at this point. 

Clarke coughs obnoxiously, interrupting the moment. “Anyone down for some shots?” 

“Nuh-uh, Clarke,” Raven clicks her tongue, disapproving. “You have your beer. That’s enough for tonight. For real, this time.”

Clarke scoffs, squinting at Raven. “What?”

Raven shoots her a pointed look, holding her hands up in self defence. “Don’t argue, Griff. I’m keeping you on a tight leash.”

“What’s the point of dragging my ass out if I can’t even drink?” Clarke gapes incredulously, sighing when Raven only shrugs in response. “Fine. But you’ll soon realise I’m a misery to go out with when I’m sober.”

So Lexa’s here, and she looks so unfairly good, and Raven and Anya are all over each other, and Clarke’s banned from drinking. Long night ahead. 

Clarke’s half listening to the group’s shallow chatter as they order more drinks, and half letting herself be swallowed entirely by Lexa’s presence. Clarke doesn’t get it. How Lexa can be sitting here in a crappy bar, illuminated only by dim neon lights, and still look so otherworldly, still present herself so effortlessly. 

Call her terrible, but Clarke just wants under Lexa’s skin. And Lexa won’t let her. Nothing Clarke does ever seems to phase Lexa, and it’s irritating and unfair and agonising. 

“Griffin,” Octavia’s voice harshly interrupts, cutting through Clarke’s thoughts. “Tell us what crawled up your ass.”

Blinking as she takes a generous sip of her beer, Clarke doesn’t respond. She knows she’s being melodramatic, but she doesn’t have it in her to care. She wishes she didn’t come tonight. Wishes she was in her bed, wrapped within her comforter with some lame David Attenborough documentary on her TV, zonked out and careless. But she’s not. She’s here, and she wishes she wasn’t. 

Raven groans at Clarke’s lack of response. “Jesus Christ, Clarke. You can’t tell me you’re this miserable over Finn and his pencil dick. You’re a grown woman. Get a grip.”

(Clarke doesn’t miss Lexa’s fleeting glance, the knowing smirk that tugs ever so faintly at the corners of her mouth.)

Clarke can only smile bitterly at Raven’s words, holding her mug of beer up in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

As Clarke takes another grandiose swig of her beer, a voice cuts through the crowd of people from the other end of the bar. 

“Lexa?”

And, fuck. As Clarke turns, she immediately knows who it is. It’s the woman from the other night, the one who came from Lexa’s bedroom. The one who Lexa kicked out for Clarke’s sake. She’s blonde and she’s beautiful and she’s maybe Lexa’s soon-to-be-girlfriend, or her fuck buddy, or an ex she never cut ties with, or something else. Something to do with why things are “ _complicated_ ” for Lexa at the moment, probably. Clarke doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know.

All she knows is that her heart aches more than it should at the sight of Lexa turning her head curiously at the sound of her own name, only to smile at the sight of the woman sauntering towards her, donning a silky slip dress and a coy smirk, heels clacking against the floor. Clarke suddenly feels feeble and misplaced in her worn skinny jeans and black henley shirt. _She’s_ supposed to be the one with presence, but tonight she feels small. 

(She would’ve dressed up, too, if she’d known she would see Lexa.)

“Josie,” Lexa says fondly. Josie. _Hell, even her name is pretty. It’s not fair_. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Friend’s birthday dinner,” the woman— Josie, Clarke reminds herself— shrugs, her hand reaching out to wander along Lexa’s shoulder, fingers dancing along the collar of her shirt. 

Anya clears her throat, shooting Lexa a look expectantly. 

Lexa blinks. “Right,” she laughs. “Everybody, this is Josie. We met at, uh— Sanctum, the other night.” Clarke watches begrudgingly as Lexa introduces the woman to everyone. She tries not to cringe at the tacky nature of Josie’s greetings, she really does. She doesn’t mean to judge, but she can’t help it. 

The woman pauses when Lexa’s brief introduction stint reaches Clarke, her head tilting. “You’re the friend from the other night,” Josie drawls. “At Lexa’s apartment.”

Clarke grimaces at the memory, and at the audacity of this woman who barely knows her to even bring up such a thing in front of all these people. She doesn’t chance a look at her friends, doesn’t dare decipher the looks on their faces; she already knows what she’ll find. They can save the interrogation for later. 

“Yeah,” Clarke drags out. “Sorry about that, hot stuff.”

She doesn’t bother to converse with Josie for any longer than she has to. Turning back to the bar, she holds up her empty mug of beer, yelling out to the bartender for another. Because what’s Raven gonna do? Yell at her?

Clarke tries her best to pay no mind to Josie and Lexa’s patent, sickening flirting and the dramatic coos of her friends. At this rate, the two women could start dry humping like teenagers right here in front of everyone, and Clarke wouldn’t even be surprised. Disturbed, sure. But not surprised. 

By the time Josie’s finally prying her hands away from Lexa’s body and drawing her eyes away from deep green, Clarke is a mere second away from snapping. So it’s to her relief when Josie spots what Clarke assumes is her own group of friends from across the bar, giving them a wave and placing a kiss on Lexa’s cheek, before she saunters away. 

Clarke’s giving a thankful nod to the bartender as he’s passing her a fresh mug of beer, when she _feels_ the eyes of her friends practically shooting lasers toward her, burning through her skin, silently interrogating. Gritting her teeth, she stands up, forcibly keeping her gaze averted from all sets of eyes laid upon her. “I’m going to the bathroom. Watch my drink.”

She slips away less than elegantly, charging toward wherever the bathroom may be. She barges gracelessly through the bar and into the restrooms, bracing herself against the sinks as she lets out a groan, running a hand through her hair. 

She knows, she’ll have everyone and their mothers on her case the second she steps out of this restroom. Raven hasn’t even questioned yet, but Clarke knows her best friend well enough to know she’s not going to let up the minute she gets the chance to stick her nose into the chaos that is Clarke and Lexa. She knows she’ll have to explain. The thing is, she doesn’t even know what to explain. What’s she supposed to say? That she showed up to Lexa’s that night because she had nowhere else to go? Because her and Lexa are just _so_ close, after their little 3 week hate-sex endeavour? Right. Makes perfect sense. 

Clarke’s train of thought is cut short by the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, the sound of footsteps tapping against tiles cutting through the silence. Clarke straightens up, letting out a final sigh as she chances a look at herself in the mirror. 

Instead of meeting her own eyes in the mirror, though, she meets Lexa’s. The brunette is hovering awkwardly behind Clarke, hands in her pockets, worrying her lip between her teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa murmurs. And Clarke’s confused, because when has Lexa ever been apologetic? When has she ever gone out of her way to genuinely communicate with Clarke?

Clarke can only laugh bitterly, shaking her head. “You don’t have to apologise. I know Josie didn’t have any bad intentions,” she sighs, turning to face Lexa. “It was cute.”

Then comes what feels like a million beats of silence before Lexa’s next words. “What are you going to say to your friends? When they ask?”

And then Clarke gets it. This isn’t about her. This isn’t even about _them_. This is about Lexa, about her image. Because of course it is. And Clarke gets it, she does. She understands. But it irritates her on some deep, fucked up level, because she _wants_ it to be about her, wants it to be about them. Wants _this_ to mean something to Lexa. But it doesn’t, does it?

“You mean, what am I going to tell _your colleagues_ when they ask what I was doing at your apartment on a Saturday night?” Clarke drawls, mirthless and harsh. When Lexa doesn’t speak, Clarke hums, continuing. “I know this isn’t your first rodeo, Lexa. It’s not mine, either. Big deal if my friends find out we fucked a few times, huh?”

The reality is, Clarke can think of a billion lies she could tell. She could bluff. It’s not as though it’d be a plain lie to say that her showing up to Lexa’s apartment on Saturday night was anything less than innocent. She knows no one has to know. So no one will.

“Don’t worry, Lexa. Our secret’s safe with me,” she scoffs, hands gesturing dismissively through the air, permitting Lexa to leave. 

But Lexa doesn’t leave. 

She stays put, her eyes fixed on Clarke. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa repeats. “About the other things, too.” Clarke only blinks, bewildered. So Lexa continues. “I don’t want us to have this shit between us anymore. We’re adults, Clarke.”

This time, Clarke _doesn’t_ get it. Because what is Lexa implying? What’s she even apologising for? When she searches Lexa’s eyes for an answer, she finds nothing. Nothing other than sincerity. 

Why Lexa decided to have this conversation right now, in the bathroom of a shitty downtown bar, Clarke doesn’t know. She’s sure that by this point, their friends have their ears pressed up against the door, listening to every word. They’ve been gone for too long for it not to look strange.

“What are you saying?” Clarke asks, straight to the point.

“That we should be friends.”

And, oh. _Oh_. Of course.

“Okay,” Clarke capitulates, because what else is there to say? 

“Yeah?” Lexa tests.

“Yeah.” Clarke’s affirmation is simple, but she knows she should make a case, in the name of not looking too friendly or eager.

(Not that she _is_ eager.)

“I mean— our friends are dating. Our circles will overlap. So, yeah. Okay,” Clarke babbles, watching Lexa closely. “Friends.”

Nodding once, Lexa smiles softly. Not able to do much else, Clarke does the same, watching as Lexa shifts her weight between her feet awkwardly.

There’s tension between her and Lexa again, Clarke notes, despite the conclusion they’ve just come to. It’s a familiar tension, though, one that Clarke knows all too well. One she’s missed. 

She’s going to try something. “So,” Clarke begins, testing the waters. “Since we’re, um... friends, could I ask you a question?”

The minute the words slip from her lips, she regrets them. She thinks maybe Lexa won’t pick up on where she was going. Hopes. 

Her tone must make her intentions clear, though, because that all-knowing, cocky smirk tugs at Lexa’s lips once again. It’s crude and enticing and cryptic all at once, and Clarke doesn’t get it. 

“Hm?” Lexa prompts.

And then Clarke’s continuing, before she can stop herself. “Is Josie your girlfriend?” The question is frank and to the point, without a hint of inhibition or restraint. But it’s suggestive, too, and they both know it. “You told Harper things are complicated, so I assumed...”

Lexa clears her throat slightly, readjusting the position she’s standing in. “No,” she states, equally as blunt. “Why do you ask?”

Clarke’s sure Lexa already knows the answer to that question. She knows she could stop herself from going any further, just say that she was only being curious. But she can’t, for some reason. It’s as if there is some invisible force pulling her toward these stupid decisions. 

And then it’s too late for Clarke to say anything, anyway. Because after one quick exhale, the brunette’s stepping closer, backing Clarke up until the blonde’s backside hits the ledge of the sinks, gripping onto her hips, whispering lowly into Clarke’s ear. “I guess one more for the road wouldn’t hurt.”

_One more_. The insinuation of those words hurts more than it should. And Clarke knows, one more _will_ hurt. One more will hurt like a bitch. One more will just be another memory of Lexa for Clarke to be taunted by every night while she’s trying to sleep, trying to escape thoughts of Lexa and her lips and her fingers and her tongue and _everything_ about her. Clarke can’t take one more. 

And that’s what brings her to her senses. Before she can let her hands reach to claw at Lexa’s back, she’s stopping herself, letting her forehead drop against Lexa’s, shaking her head softly. “I’m s—“

There’s a sudden, thunderous bang on the door of the restrooms, and then the door is swinging open before Clarke and Lexa have time to pull themselves out of their compromising position. 

“The hell is going—“ 

The way Raven’s face contorts as she settles her gaze upon Clarke and Lexa, who have now managed to somewhat untangle themselves, is almost comical. By the time she’s displayed probably every possible facial expression to exist, Clarke and Lexa have managed to make distance between each other, now standing stiffly as they blink at Raven.

Lexa coughs awkwardly, shifting her gaze toward the ground before she’s stepping away, making her way out of the bathroom. Because apparently she’s allowed to just walk right out of this situation, and leave Clarke to do all the explaining. How kind of her. 

Raven waits for the door to click shut behind Lexa before she finally speaks up. “What the fuck was that?”

Clarke swallows, her hand reaching to idly rub at the back of her own neck as she racks her brain for some believable response that won’t end in Raven grilling her ass to hell. 

“I don’t know,” Clarke blurts, forcing a laugh. “We were just talking while I was fixing up my makeup, and then suddenly she’s leaning in and kissing me.”

Her best friend balks at the blatant lie, letting out an incredulous half-laugh. “Bullshit. I’m not stupid, Clarke. Tell me.”

It’s not often that Clarke is intimidated by Raven, but in this moment, Raven has her backed into a corner, and Clarke’s only choices are to dig herself deeper into this hole, or just be upfront. 

“Okay,” Clarke rushes out, placing a hand against her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. “Okay. I can explain. I promise. Just... not right now. Please.”

Raven shoots her a pointed look, and Clarke flinches. “How long?” Raven demands, menacing. “How long have you two been... doing _that_?”

Clarke groans, almost pleading. “Rae, please. Not now.”

Raven’s gaze softens just slightly, and she nods. “Fine. Tomorrow, though. It better be good. And you’re not going to bullshit me.”

Holding her hands up defensively, Clarke nods. “I swear.”

(Back out in the bar, no one brings it up. For the remainder of the night. Clarke and Lexa exchange awkward glances every now and then, but no one takes notice. They’ll move past this, Clarke decides.)

  
iii.

“You sure you don’t want to just catch a cab with us?” Raven calls, fingers intertwined with Anya’s as she swings their arms, and it’s so romantic that it’s sickening. “You can just stay at mine.”

Barking out a laugh, Clarke shakes her head. “I’d rather sleep on the street than have to listen to you two fucking all night,” she jokes. “Plus, I have an early meeting tomorrow. Just gonna catch a cab back to my place.”

“Your loss,” Raven laughs, giving Anya a small kiss on the cheek. “Catch you later, Griff. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at that, reaching into her pocket for her cigs as she watches Raven and Anya slip into a cab, all tipsy and giggly and stumbling. She smiles as she lights the tip, leaning back against the brick wall of the building, letting her eyes flit shut.

She’d managed to get Raven drunk enough on Margaritas to drop the entire topic of what she’d witnessed in the bathroom, as though it had never happened. No one else in the group had been brave enough to pry, either, so both Clarke and Lexa managed to get through the night without being interrogated or grilled. She’d call that a win. 

“Need a ride?”

Clarke opens one eye to peer beside herself curiously, slightly too tipsy and out of it to identify the person from their voice alone. 

And then there Lexa is, standing in her stupid sexy button up shirt, hand in her pocket nonchalantly as she leans against the bricks. “Asking as a friend,” she clarifies.

Raising an eyebrow, Clarke gives her a once over as she blows out a puff of smoke. “Are we really going to keep that up? The friends thing?”

Lexa shrugs. “I meant it.”

Thing is, Clarke knows Lexa meant it. She doesn’t doubt that. That’s half the hurt, though. That’s half of what makes it so difficult for Clarke to accept. That for Lexa, it’s going to be so easy to go from fuck-buddies to friends, just like that. Because, fairly, that’s all they were— fuck buddies. 

And surely Lexa feels as though she never really _gave_ any of herself to Clarke, not in the way Clarke did to her. Of course, the act of giving herself to somebody intimately is hardly new territory for Clarke. The difference is, Lexa never gave any of herself to Clarke in return. Maybe that’s why this is so much easier for Lexa. 

It’s strange, though, too. Because Lexa doesn’t _like_ her _,_ as far as Clarke is concerned. Lexa could’ve just as easily posed the idea of _keeping it civil_ , for the sake of their jobs. What does _friendship_ entail when both parties have nothing in common aside from their careers and the few nights of sex they shared? 

Clarke shakes herself out of her thoughts, meeting Lexa’s gaze. “I would appreciate that ride home,” she states as she drops her cigarette butt to the ground, putting it out with the toe of her shoe, slightly aggressively. “If you don’t mind.”

The car ride is agonising, to say the least. The drive to Clarke’s apartment is only 15 minutes at the most, but the uneasy silence that riddles the car from Lexa and Clarke’s lack of conversation drags those minutes out into what feels like hours. 

From the corner of her eye, Clarke can make out Lexa eyeing her as the car pulls to a halt at a red light. 

“You okay?” Lexa queries quietly.

“Yeah,” Clarke smiles, meeting Lexa’s eyes momentarily, chest tightening at the concern that crosses Lexa’s features. “Just tired.”

Lexa nods, eyes fixed back on the road as the light ahead of her turns green. There’s a few minutes of silence before she clears her throat, speaking up. “Would you want to grab a coffee or something tomorrow?”

Slightly taken aback, Clarke blinks. It’s not that she didn’t think Lexa would make a genuine effort— she just didn’t think she’d do it so soon. “As colleagues, or as friends?” 

Laughing softly, Lexa shakes her head. “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

Clarke hums, shrugging. “Yeah, but... would we be talking about something other than work?”

“That depends. Do you want to talk about something other than work?” Lexa pries as she pulls the car to a halt outside of Clarke’s building. 

“I still don’t really know anything about you,” Clarke utters, reaching to the floor of Lexa’s car for her purse before opening the door and stepping outside, giving Lexa one last knowing smile. “Let’s start there. I’m free after 12 tomorrow.”

Lexa nods, gaze soft as she looks at Clarke. “I’ll text you.”

“Yeah,” Clarke breathes. “Goodnight, Lexa.”

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really just needed to get this chapter off my screen, lol. writer’s block has been causing me immense suffering. next chapter will probably come quicker, possibly with a side of fluff... i promise we’re getting there.


End file.
